Clay and Pearl
by KnightedRogue
Summary: On a mission for the Rebel Alliance, Han and Leia wade deep into the crime and grime of Nar Shaddaa. Pre-ESB AU, rated for language and adult themes.
1. Prologue

Clay and Pearl _is a pre-ESB AU that will update on Fridays. As a rule, I will never reference Disney canon; I am from a long-lost era in which the pseudo-canon was the Expanded Universe. Any backgrounds, characterizations or settings will hail from that canon. Disney owns_ Star Wars _, but they do not own my twenty-five year plus history with Han and Leia, and they can take that from my cold, dead fingers._

 _This fic is freely written and freely given: a present from me to you. I make no money from this enterprise. Comments are always appreciated, though I humbly request you submit them with the same sense of community and love with which I give you this story. A human sits behind this keyboard!_

 _And, finally, I hope you enjoy. Happy Fridays, my friends! Here we go…_

* * *

 _Prologue_

* * *

The smoke stung Leia's eyes, blaster fire zipping past her ears with a wild _crack_ and a rush of heat _._ She pumped her legs harder and blinked, trying to keep track of Han ahead of her. The marketplace blurred past them, colors bright and vivid as adrenaline coursed through her veins. Her lungs burned; sweat cascaded down her back.

A single blaster bolt lanced past her and nicked Han's heel. With startled horror, Leia watched as he stumbled, tried to regain his footing and then stumbled again, his knee hitting the dirt with a pained groan. Leia's heart stopped as she caught up to him, as she tried to grab his arm and pull him up.

"Fuck," he muttered. " _Fuck_."

She pulled on his arm again but his knee stayed pressed into the dirt. Leia gritted her teeth and glanced behind her, eyeing the incoming stormtroopers with dread running up and down her spine.

"Get up," she yelled and ducked, pulling his head to her chest as a blaster bolt whipped over them. " _Get up."_

The stormtroopers were fewer than fifteen meters away, armor rattling and voices rising. Their fire slowed and then stopped and Leia realized with a pang that their orders must be to take them alive. The clicks of blaster settings switching from _kill_ to _stun_ surrounded Han and Leia.

She turned back to look at Han. His face was splotched with mud, his eyes looking at her with such calm assurance that it stopped her breath.

"Go," he said, squeezing her hand. "Get to the _Falcon._ "

Leia shook her head, heart in her throat, looking behind her again to the troopers as they fanned out along the street. Han and Leia had fifteen seconds before they were enclosed, before any chance of escape disappeared.

"No," she said and tugged his hand again. "Get _up."_

"Leia."

She turned to him, ready to beg, ready to plead with him to just _stand up._ This couldn't be the end for him, not here on Nar Shaddaa, not now, not after he'd kissed her and sworn he was ready to stay for her. If he could just stand, they could get away, they could run and—

"You gotta go," he said, pain etched into the line of his mouth but his eyes, oh, his eyes were so calm, so _grateful_ and this wasn't how this happened, this wasn't how this ended, before it even started. _No._

"Your Highness."

A deep bass. Harsh breathing through a mechanized mask. Leia's entire body went cold.

Vader. Her worst nightmare, the enemy she loathed and feared, the only man who inspired such dread in her. She knew what it was to be Vader's prisoner and she could not, _would not_ , let herself be taken into his custody again.

She stepped in front of Han's crouched body and lifted her blaster, aiming it square at the scourge's chestplate. Sweat rolling into her eyes but with an arm that didn't shake, didn't waver in the slightest, she squeezed off one shot before the troopers fired at her.

Unthinking, she pulled her blaster back and straightened her left arm, fingers splayed. As if watching a holofilm, Leia observed with some distance the stun bolts hit her hand, dissipate into her glove, a sting running through her arm.

But she didn't fall.

Another stun bolt. And another. And another. All hitting their target with precision that stormtroopers only managed at point-blank range. And Leia felt them, felt the energy course through her, felt the energy nestle into her rib cage beneath her lungs and solidify in a thrumming center of power.

And still she didn't fall.

"The hell?" she heard Han say from behind her, a low note beneath the chaotic melody of the stun bolts.

Her eyes were on Vader, though, boring into his mask, feeling his automatic breathing as if it were her own, as if she were feeding off his presence and her hatred of him, of what he stood for, of how he'd ruined her and her people and the people of the galaxy.

 _You won't take Han from me, too,_ she thought.

Time stopped as the monster in front of her raised a hand, silencing the stormtroopers' blasters as quickly as if he'd spoken. Leia's hand shook, extended in front of her, and her lungs burned, her torso alight with electricity, absorbing the stun bolt energy in some bizarre, wholly inexplicable miracle of physics.

 _I should be unconscious,_ she managed to think before Vader took three steps toward her. Gasping for breath, she lowered her left hand, feeling weak and powerful at once.

The dark lord stood above her, so close she could feel his breathing in her chest. She felt Han try to stand again, manage to shift his weight onto his uninjured leg and rise behind her. She was trapped between her most intimate enemy, the vilest trash she'd ever known, and the man she loved.

 _Loved?_

Yes, loved. Without consent and without aim, she loved him and she would rather die than let him fall into Vader's clutches. _Loved. In love with._

 _He loves you, too._

She dropped her blaster to the ground, reached behind her for Han's hand, aware that there was no hope in killing Vader now. He was too close. All she could do was force him to kill them quickly.

He was closer to her than he'd been since he'd gripped her shoulder as her entire planet was destroyed.

 _Filth,_ she thought. _Wretch. Abomination._

"Obi-Wan?" Vader said, as if to himself.

Leia closed her eyes, breathed deeply and then harnessed the energy in her stomach, the accumulated chaos of her anger and the stun bolts …

… and then she _exploded._


	2. Nar Shaddaa

_Nar Shaddaa_

* * *

 _Three days earlier_

Leia Organa didn't believe in destiny.

Destiny was a concept for a lazy mind: a crutch for beings who deferred their choices to an unnamed entity. Destiny implied that beings were not responsible for their own choices, that a larger plan moved the pieces on the dejarik board independent of will or desire. And Viceroy Bail and Queen Breha had taught her better than that. She'd been raised to take action, to foil chaos at every turn, to champion civility and goodness with every fiber of her being. She _chose_ to fight; she _chose_ to work for the betterment of the galaxy. It was her choice and she clung to that choice with every cell in her body.

But there were forces at work in her life, in the universe: forces that made her question what she'd always known. Specifically two men, polar opposites of each other: Luke Skywalker and Han Solo.

Since she'd met them in the bowels of the Death Star a year and a half ago, her rag-tag saviors had represented two very different ways of looking at destiny. Luke, with his strict belief in the Force, in spirits, in the magical realm of quasi-futures and predestinations. And then Han, with his finger forever soldered to his trigger, always putting stock in his hunches though he vociferously denied he had any metaphysical beliefs whatsoever.

Leia shifted in her seat with a sense of unease, tapping an index finger on the armrest of the navigator's chair in the cockpit of the _Millennium Falcon._

Han's hunches were the source of her current discomfort; his repeated questions and weighted comments about this mission had put her on edge. She'd learned to trust his _bad feelings_ as a matter of practical survival. How then could she say without a doubt that there was nothing to his—and therefore Luke's—particular brand of spirituality? Belief in the Force or belief in oneself? They were, essentially, the same thing, weren't they?

Leia shook her head, frustrated with her own obsessive mental gymnastics, and focused on the viewport in front of her. The _Falcon_ speared through the atmosphere of Nar Shaddaa with precision and an artful sort of engineering finesse. Dull green gaseous clouds blew across the _Falcon_ 's hull. A noxious grime collected on the viewport as they descended, swift and athletic through first the outer atmosphere and into the clearer air nearest the ground.

Leia had visited many worlds in her life. Her work with the Imperial Senate had ensured that she maintain a low bar for acceptable environments. Sentient life formed and thrived on planets with methane oceans and radiation that reduced carbon particles to nothing. Beings lived in the haloes of supernovas and the crusts of black holes. It was never wise to discount the hardiness of life and the environments that sustained it.

She'd even been to many pseudo-habitable moons and space stations in her time with the Alliance: the dangerous, the poisonous, the decrepit and the decayed. Wherever defiance sprouted, Leia followed, sure as the day was long.

Or not. Some planets had days that only lasted a standard hour. She'd seen that, too.

And yet nothing, _nothing,_ had looked as sickeningly pale and unhealthy as the off-color clouds of this planet. It reminded her of the heavy mists on Kamino: visceral, weighted, like density was a planetary competition. But Kamino's heavy atmosphere was pregnant with water, not filth. Even if the water was contaminated, it seemed pure when viewed from the inside of a cockpit. Here, the environment held particles of ugly origin, visible even to human eyes. Chunks of _something_ swept past the viewport and she grimaced in disgust.

Leia was tempted to lean over and toggle the _Falcon's_ belly gun. She had a hunch that the plasma might light the atmosphere on fire.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Han said. He flicked a switch and the viewport flashed, magnetic web clearing the grime. "Nothing good comes out of Nar Shaddaa."

"Enviro-stabilizers do," she said.

Chewbacca growled from the co-pilot's seat. While her Shryiiwook comprehension was improving, idioms still confused her. She'd learned the tonal values to Chewie's language quickly: growls versus groans versus the amused melody of his chuckle. But, as with most languages, sentiments that didn't directly translate into Basic words were difficult for her. When she had the time, she'd started to use circumlocution and pantomime to learn. Only when stressed or annoyed did she resort to direct translation from either of the other two of the _Falcon_ 's passengers.

She turned a questioning look to the protocol droid magno-clamped to the seat on her left. "Threepio?"

See-Threepio turned his head, jumping at the opportunity to be useful. "Chewbacca says that one can find stabilizers on any number of worlds. And if you permit me to add—"

"No, Goldenrod. He said _you can't honestly be dumb enough to make a deal with the Hutts_ ," Han interrupted. "And I agree. This is insane."

"Since when does _insane_ make you balk, Captain?" she asked.

Han grunted a low oath, then spoke louder so she could understand him. " _Insane_ is fine. It's the _Hutt_ part that makes me want to burn thrusters and get outta here."

Leia knew a little of Han's debt to a Hutt on Tatooine. She'd picked up few specifics from oblique comments from the man himself and slightly less oblique comments from Chewie. Han was at best tight-lipped about the debt and at worst downright angry whenever she tried to ask him about it.

She'd once proposed arranging for the Alliance to cover the _Falcon_ 's fuel expenses for a year while he ran missions for them. The extra credits would help him accrue enough to pay off the Hutt, she'd hoped. All she'd asked in return was a signed intention to officially join the Alliance at the end of the year. Even when he drove her crazy, even when she wanted to throw him out an open airlock, she could recognize that beings like Han Solo were desperately needed in the Alliance ranks: beings with experience, skill and a hefty level of insanity to get the job done.

Han had stared at her for a long moment after her proposal, narrowed his eyes, and informed her that if she offered anything of the sort to him again, he'd take off for parts unknown before she could blink.

She hadn't offered again.

"We aren't dealing directly with the Hutts," Leia said. "We have the intermediary. We'll be fine."

Han hissed a bitter laugh. "Just because you have a smuggler running between you and the Hutts doesn't mean they won't screw you over. That's their whole M.O., sweetheart."

Han flicked a switch and Leia felt the _Falcon_ 's artificial gravity lessen until she was weightless, strapped into the navigator's seat. Instantly, three centimeters of space appeared between her thigh and the smooth, aged leather of the chair. She scowled, waiting for Nar Shaddaa's natural gravity to take hold, knowing that the smuggler had prematurely taken the artificial gravity system offline a second earlier than need be. Leia hated the feeling of weightlessness and Han knew it.

 _Damn man,_ she thought.

A second ticked by and then her body returned to mass and volume and weight.

"It's a calculated risk," she answered him, struggling to maintain the conversation. She'd be damned if she let on how much the weightlessness had unnerved her. "The heaters are worth it."

Chewie barked what sounded like a question. Leia caught _you sure_ and _contact_ but little else.

"He asks if you fully trust the intermediary," Threepio translated.

Leia pursed her lips. "Absolutely."

That was a partial lie; she was only half-certain the intel was valid. The deal with the Hutts for four hundred portable heaters had been a ramshackle effort between Alliance Intelligence and General Carlist Rieekan, and while she wasn't perfectly sure of Intelligence, she trusted Carlist with her life.

And the ends justified the means in this case: the payload was intended for the proposed Echo Base on small, unpopulated Hoth. Leia felt strongly that the bare, bald tundra planet was the Alliance's best chance for a lasting land base. No one in their right mind would look to the naturally hostile system for the Rebel Alliance.

The deal allowed no questions, no strings: nothing but an agreement cut on the quiet. The Hutts didn't care who paid as long as they paid, and the Alliance paid _._ She'd made many such supply deals for rations, bacta, intel …

Just never with the Hutts.

She knew they were ruthless, utterly corrupt and unsavory. But credits were credits, after all. And she was very concerned about the rate of Alliance base evacuations in the past six months, the personnel and equipment they lost with each successive evacuation. It felt like she had barely settled into one base before the evac order was given and they were off to another one.

Han, however, seemed to have a different priority. "If you get me killed trying to find a few goddamned heaters, I'm gonna be pissed."

Chewie rumbled in the affirmative and Leia rolled her eyes. "If you're killed, you're going to be dead _,_ not pissed. I'll take my chances."

Han threw her a glare and then turned back to the viewport and the ugly world before him. Dull grey and brown firmnement rose to greet them through clouds of pollution and filth.

Nar Shaddaa: the largest moon of Nal Hutta, the homeworld of the Hutts. The galaxy's most stubborn and profitable dive bar. Crime ruled supreme in the metropolis, sprawling and insidious but without Coruscant's civilized veneer. No one tried to pretend that any civility existed here. This was wild, pure anarchy in its highest form.

Han activated the magnetic net again, clearing the grime, and Leia could finally detangle the tallest spires of the enormous planet-wide city from its lower buildings. Dim, dank, polluted and ugly, the city thrummed with activity even as the _Falcon_ 's atmospheric sensors warned her passengers of low air quality. Leia glanced at the sensor display, concerned: oxygen, nitrogen, carbon and a dangerously high sulfur content for humans.

She wondered where all the green in the atmosphere came from. Neon? Copper? Sodium? An effect of pollution or a byproduct of some industry on the planet?

Leia tried very hard not to grimace.

Nar Shaddaa by all rights should be uninhabitable after years of poor environmental management and the putrid exploitation of every possible resource until barren. Import/export businesses _had_ to thrive here; Nar Shaddaa could not sustain itself otherwise, if indeed it sustained itself now. Sociological studies done here before her birth had shown sweeping food shortages and a lack of clean drinking water for everyone except the native Ganks. Force only knew how terrible it was now.

The irony that she was here to find enviro-stabilizers hit her with a sudden, visceral pang. Ugly. Irresponsible. Nearly cannibalistic in its desire to consume.

How— _how?_ —was Alderaan lost while this utter trash heap of a moon thrived?

She pushed the pain aside, deeply contained and utterly ignored. Such was life; she had work to do. There wasn't time for moral indignation.

Chewie rumbled a low question to Han, who shrugged in reply. "Jabba doesn't send people here anymore, not since Fris took over the eastern continent. We should be fine."

He used the word _fine_ rather loosely, Leia thought. Nothing about this situation seemed fine to her.

"You don't have to leave the ship," Leia offered. "I'll go to the meet by myself. No need risking everybody."

Han turned in his seat to give her a patronizing look, eyebrows up and eyes hard. "And how are you gonna hide the _Falcon_? She's just as bountied as the rest of us."

It figured he'd be more worried about his ship than their lives.

"Once we land, the _Falcon_ will blend into the rest of the trash," she shot back. "No one will know the difference."

Chewie barked a laugh and Han scowled at her before turning back to the viewport. The set of his shoulders screamed amusement to her and she tried to stifle her grin.

"Maybe you'd like to find someone else to take you home, huh, sweetheart?" he muttered.

Leia tucked a smile into a glance at the hull to her right, amused at his tone but unwilling to show it. Flirtatious but without the flirting, she was used to his jabs.

"I hope so," she said. "I don't think this hunk of junk will make it out of the system."

"What are you gonna do? Flap your royal arms real fast?"

She lost the battle with her mirth, softly laughing under her breath. Triumphant, Han threw her bright smile and then turned back to the viewport, leaving Leia with the barest embers of heat thrumming beneath her skin.

 _Oh, Han,_ she thought. The man had no clue how close to the surface her heart was when he said and did things like that. It would be so easy, so effortless, to fall into him with the sort of terrible intimacy she craved from him. Surrounded by danger and Hutts and a world of horrors that she only knew from data reports, his touch would be so welcome, so wonderfully distracting—

Her smile faded, her own words echoing back to her with a sense of resigned sadness.

 _No,_ she demanded of herself. _You will not think that way._

But the image of his arms around her body, his lips on hers, the heat under his skin and the salt of his sweat on her tongue … they spiraled through her mind, far too difficult to suppress.

 _Love._ _Lust. Want._

Like it was even possible for her to love anyone anymore. Like a parallel universe existed, one in which she hadn't turned around that night on Meridian and abandoned her desperate longing for someone to just _touch_ her. Like she wasn't slavishly committed to dying for the Alliance, sure of it, and that whatever mortal delights she experienced before that day were nothing in the end.

Why invite more pain when he finally left? Since he was so determined to go?

She was a martyr. Period. Martyrs didn't have trysts, lovers, love. Martyrs had a cause.

The cockpit settled into a hush as the _Falcon_ descended, buildings growing larger and more distinct as her altitude dwindled.

A spike of adrenaline lanced up her spine as she ran through her mission plans, wishing for the hundredth time that she'd been able to convince High Command to let Luke come along. But the Rogues were being used to scout potential new bases—including the one that might receive the heaters she bought here on Nar Shaddaa—and he was needed elsewhere.

And, too, she didn't want to sacrifice Luke if this mission went badly.

Down, down, down the _Falcon_ travelled, until the grim shadows of the tallest spires overtook them. Leia stood from her chair and leaned between Han and Chewie to see more clearly. The city was enormous but lacked any sense of self-restraint. Ancient opulence littered the skyline, modern credits flowing from crime bosses to the average wretch on the street. Drudging wealth made in the spice trade, the buying and selling of slaves, an ugly apathy for politics or justice.

Nar Shaddaa was as repellant a sight as a decaying corpse.

Leia quietly exhaled, steeling herself for the hours ahead and then said, "Let's go."


	3. Deep Waters

_Deep Waters_

* * *

Han and Chewie had made a private pact to hound Leia on this mission. No privacy. No autonomy. A prisoner on a mission of her own design.

It was obvious in the way the two males exchanged pointed looks when she offered to cover a third angle of _The Golden Hand,_ the cantina where they would meet the Hutt intermediary. Chewie's eyes had narrowed until the blue almost disappeared into his caf-cinnamon fur. Han's lips turned down and he shook his head, the angry look she knew so well in his eyes.

"No."

Leia wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly. " _No?"_

"No. Two angles are fine," he said, as if that settled any argument.

Oh, but she'd worked with them both on far too many missions to fail to recognize their passive male protection bit.

"Hang on," she said, "this is _my_ mission!"

"I'll go alone," Han said, overlapping her last word. "You stay here with Chewie and cover this angle."

He'd turned and left without another word. Leia's spine straightened, tight and tense, miffed at such treatment. She _hated_ his protectiveness. Had a large Wookiee paw not descended on her shoulder she would have followed him into his blasted _second angle_ and reminded him exactly who was in charge here.

With an angry hiss Leia watched, impotent, as Han adopted his devil-may-care walk—an amble, a stroll, a kind of mercenary promenade—and sauntered out of their alley and into the misty gray light of an East Nar Shaddaa afternoon. The air felt wet on her skin; it was like breathing in water with every inhale. Stale water. _Unclean_ water.

Ugh.

She pressed her lips together and fumed. She hated being babysat and, worse, she hated that Han and Chewie were probably right to sideline her until she got her bearings. Leia was nothing if not self-possessed and articulate. She wasn't terrible at picking up social cues and mirroring others but she knew she didn't have enough experience in the slough of the galactic underbelly to convincingly pull off a local aesthetic right away. _Princess training,_ Han called it. Her default mode was to look out of place on worlds such as this.

The first step she made into public would give her away long before she had a chance to adopt a gait half as convincing as Han's. Even the quick scurry from the _Falcon_ 's berth in the spaceport to _The Golden Hand_ had been made largely in the shadows.

She tried to calm herself, watching the sure line of Han's back as he took a position against a half-crumbling duracrete wall across the street from them. The wind ruffled his hair in infuriatingly attractive ways, like even the natural elements were conspiring with him. He crossed one long leg over the other and shoved his hands in what she'd only just realized were pockets in his bloodstriped pants.

 _Pockets!_ she thought. _How is there room in those things for pockets? He wears them so damn tight._

Soft, low images. Light touches of fingertips to skin revealed by the slow retreat of navy blue fabric to star-kissed skin. The line of a blaster tie-down slipping through her palm. The sound of kneecaps hitting the gravel beneath her feet, the breeze warmer, the picture deeper, his face in softer lines as he smiled down at her ...

 _Han,_ she almost said, a sigh, a plea, and the images recoiled, folding back into the safe haven of her mind like the _Falcon_ 's retractable boarding ramp. Mortified, she blinked and turned to shake off Chewie's paw, trying to steady herself by focusing on him.

"I'm not going to run, Chewie," she said.

 _Too fast_ , she reprimanded herself. _Too sudden_. _Control yourself, Leia!_

The Wookiee chuckled and moved his paw to pat her head twice, then removed it to rest on his bowcaster. She scowled, took a deep breath, and turned to watch the cantina entrance. A group of beings began to congregate there, the faithful diaspora of alcohol and regret, waiting. Her heart ached, watching them: their hopelessness, the need to dull their pain and forget.

The wind swelled and changed direction, tugging at their clothing and hair, and Leia wrinkled her nose as light rainfall swept over the street.

A dull, slightly brown-tinged rain.

Leia groaned. "Is everything on this rock so … _ugly?_ "

Sickly?

Wasted?

She considered herself an inclusive person, worked hard to reserve judgement on anything or anyone until she had the opportunity to test her own assumptions. But nothing on Nar Shaddaa seemed to fill the shape it was supposed to fill. The clouds were green but the emaciated vegetation was not. The rain was brown: _how_ did it get that way? Did she even want to know? She had yet to see a child. Where were the children?

It was odd. Green clouds, brown rain and no younglings? Like the opposite of home.

Chewie chuckled and growled. She caught the _yes_ and a tone she thought she recognized as fond admiration _._

She took a stab at his meaning. "It's not all bad?" she guessed.

Chewie nodded and said: [Something] _beings can be worth more._

Trying to absorb meaning through context, Leia pressed her lips together. "My mother used to say: _beauty lies in deep waters, not shallow pools._ Is that what you mean?"

He growled in the affirmative, his tone kind.

"So then tell me, Chewie: where do you see beauty here? Because all I see is _wet_ and _filthy_ and _evil._ "

She surveyed the scene before her, the dilapidated wall behind Han, the spice addict begging on the street to her right, the rundown mismanagement and virulent greed that seeped from the ground beneath her boots and rained from the sky above her head. No order, no justice, no equality: just pain and exploitation.

Leia saw no beauty.

Chewie was quiet behind her and then made a low murmur she knew was his pet name for his captain. _Cub._

She opened her mouth, unsure if "beauty" had translated as well as she had meant. In Basic, that word had a connotation of admiration, a sense of awe, of love.

"Cub?" she said, furrowing her brow. "You think _Han_ is beautiful?"

Not that she didn't understand the sentiment; she'd admitted to herself long ago that Han Solo was unquestionably attractive by humanoid standards. But she knew Chewie had a wife and a cub of his own and that when he growled _beauty_ to her here, it wasn't in the context of sexual attraction.

Chewie patted her shoulder and repeated his first sentence: [Something] _beings are worth more._

She couldn't track his first growl; the tone didn't sound denigrating or belittling in the slightest. It was tempting to nod and move on, to delve deeper into what the Wookiee had meant by Han being beautiful. That was, after all, the oddest part of Chewie's conversation thus far.

But Leia was determined to do two things: fully understand Shyriiwook and maintain the soft, kind friendship she'd developed with Chewie. And so she did the thing that made her most uncomfortable. She admitted her own lack of understanding.

"I'm sorry, Chewie. Which kind of beings? Humans?"

His bark of _no_ was clear. He paused a moment, then repeated the first growl: [Something]. _Struggle. Hard. Work-tired. Want. Need._

"Desperate?" she guessed. " _Desperate_ beings are worth more?"

 _Yes!_

His growl was so pleased, so proud, that Leia felt her mouth tug up into a rueful smile.

"More than what?" she asked, then eyed a Twi'lek as she sauntered past the cantina entrance, her clothing barely qualifying as much more than evocative scraps.

 _Full,_ he growled. _Sated. Not-want. Not-need._

" _Desperate beings are worth more than the sated_ ," she mused, finding purchase on his explanation. "You're better if you're hungry?"

 _Ridiculous,_ she thought. _Everyone deserves to have food, water, shelter._

But then she reconsidered. Wookiee proverbs rarely operated on a literal plane: it was the reason it had taken her the better part of eighteen months to get this far in her comprehension. Shyriiwook was the most nonliteral language she'd ever studied; vexation with the dialect had set in about two minutes after she'd begun learning it.

So not literal hunger, then. A more abstract kind of hunger.

Her thoughts turned to the legion of Alliance recruits, the disenfranchised aliens, oppressed women, poor and malnourished beings who flocked into their ranks to find something to live for besides their next meal. Her own thirst for justice for her people, her parents, her culture. Luke's desperation for a family, a community to call his own, to be worthy of his new-found notoriety and fame.

Hungry? Yes. They were all _that_ kind of hungry.

 _Beauty lies in deep waters, not shallow pools._ She'd always taken her mother's phrase to heart, choosing to find the gem of virtue in beings until she knew their mettle. Chewie was truly noble beneath the angry-sounding growls and imposing stature. Luke was unbelievably brave beneath his outside naivete. And she was far more broken than she let on, her outer beauty a facade to fool others. The softness of her face belied the angry rot beneath her skin, crumbling that same beauty from the inside-out.

Across the street Han shifted, bending his right knee to place his boot against the wall.

Desperate? Yes. There was a sort of gangly, unruly desperation about him. Rangey hunger. Insatiation. A sense that he was poised to attack at any moment. What made him so maddening to her was that she couldn't figure out what he despaired _for._ What ambition, what inner fire, what horrible memory or grand hope made him this way? She had absolutely no clue.

 _Desperate beings are worth more than the sated._

And then Han looked right at her, clear-cut and striking, and Leia sucked in a breath, her dual desires to know his body and his mind meeting in a thrill of narrow, pinpoint thread. It wrapped around him, tugged him closer to her. She blinked but the thread wasn't cut. Unimaginably strong, vital …

… and imaginary. Or at the very least one-sided.

"Wookiees are very wise," she murmured to her companion as she held Han's eyes, frozen and overheated at once.

Chewie growled softly behind her: untranslatable. Encouragement? No. Nothing so presumptuous. Just a low sound of kindness, like an audible bump of shoulders. Commiseration. Pity.

To Leia it sounded like fruitless hoping. She refocused on the task at hand.

* * *

Han, however, was focused on something else entirely.

This mission, this _fucking nightmare_ of a mission, was a shitshow of feelings. Feelings like road hazards, like atmospheric debris. Every single feeling he had to his name—and he'd never known how capable of feelings he'd been until he'd met the kid and the princess—was firing on full power. Thrusters burning. Liftoff and lightspeed and go.

He didn't want to be here. And if he had to be here, he didn't want Leia to be here with him. And if she absolutely _had_ to be here, he didn't want her anywhere near the Hutts.

And yet here they were. On Nar Shaddaa.

He glanced to his left, across the street from his alley, and eyed his copilot as he towered over the tiny dynamo princess. Chewie's eyes tracked him and the Wookiee nodded with a sly look, trying to tell Han that he had Leia under control.

Han snorted to himself. _Under control,_ he thought. _Right._

It wasn't possible to keep Leia under control. Chewie would be just as capable of harnessing a comet with his bare paws. She burned too bright, her trajectory durasteel strong. And she was the most stubborn person he'd ever met. At best, the Wookiee could hope to tackle her to the ground before she got too far, but even that was doubtful. Han had seen Leia's skills in hand-to-hand combat drills.

Underestimating Leia was the kind of fatal mistake idiots made. And neither Han nor Chewie were idiots.

When she'd approached them about this mission, he'd laughed out loud. _Nar Shaddaa,_ he'd sputtered. _You want us to take you to Nar Shaddaa? Why the hell would we do that?_

She'd lifted an eyebrow. _You've flown me from one side of this galaxy to the other, and_ this _is your hard line? The Great Han Solo?_

 _Yeah,_ he'd said, point-blank and hard. _Nar Shaddaa is my hard line. Whatever business you have there, you can find it somewhere else._

 _Not this,_ she'd said, jutting her chin up like a pro. _And not for this price. It's Nar Shaddaa or nothing._

 _Then it's nothing,_ he'd said, confident he could get her to back down.

She'd nodded, the picture of innocence, and then took a step back. _Very well. I'll ask Vel. She'll be happy to take me._

Han knew he was being played. He _knew_ it. And he still couldn't help his reaction.

 _Vel!_ He'd sputtered the name like a curse. _Vel doesn't have a clue about Nar Shaddaa! She'll get you both killed._

Lieutenant Ardya Vel was a good pilot but hailed from the same kind of upper-crust, fancy culture Leia had and Han could just imagine what critical mistakes two such blue-bloods would make. It didn't matter how smart, how capable, they were; Nar Shaddaa would chew them up and spit them back out again if they weren't careful. Leia was downright reckless when she got close to what she wanted. He plain didn't trust her in situations like that.

The firebrand in front of him had shrugged. _Vel isn't assigned to a scouting mission. A pilot is a pilot. If you won't fly me, I'm sure she would be happy to do so._

Oh, this woman would be the death of him. A pilot is a pilot? In what universe was the best choice for a jaunt to the Smuggler's Moon whoever was just hanging around? Whoever wasn't already busy? Did Leia have any idea, any idea whatsoever, how dangerous Nar Shaddaa would be for her?

 _A pilot is a—you go tell that to Darklighter or Porkins and see just what any old pilot can do for you,_ he'd shouted.

He winced to think of that now. But as usual when it came to Leia, Han's brain short-circuited. She was the most infuriating ... smart-mouthed … _stubborn ..._

And, deeper—so much deeper than he was willing to acknowledge, deeper than he could possibly want or comprehend—he'd wanted her to say, unequivocally, that she wanted him and only him. Because he was the fittest man for the job, that he could do what no one else could, that she trusted him without reservation. That there was no one else she wanted: just him, _only him,_ for as long as he could stay.

To fly her to Nar Shaddaa, of course. Not for any other reason.

 _Sure, pal,_ he'd thought to himself. _No other reason than that._

Hell, he couldn't even convince himself of that last point.

The woman in question had eyed him carefully after his outburst, and Han could see the gears in her head working at a double-time pace. This was becoming a kind of routine, this back-and-forth between them. There was friendship lurking beneath the surface; Han knew that. And lurking even further below _that_ was a simmering connection that they both tried to ignore. In moments like this one, Han knew with absolute certainty that the connection between them was rising to the surface, that someday soon someone would slip up and admit how they felt.

And so he egged her on. He pushed her buttons. Because, though he would never admit it, he was ravenous for the moment when he'd get to see, firsthand and with total reciprocity, that she was just as affected by him as he was by her.

 _Captain Solo,_ she had begun. Her voice was low, smokey: like women in cantinas with provocative lips and come-hither eyes. _Will you take me or not?_

She meant to Nar Shaddaa. He knew that.

But the simmering had turned into a boil, flicks of tempered water licking his throat, itching to say what he really wanted. _Take you?_ He'd wanted to laugh. _Honey, I'd take you in a second. It'd be so good, so real, and you—you'd_ wreck _me. Sweetheart, there's nothing I want more—_

But he hadn't said any of that out loud.

Before he'd known it, he'd coughed out a _yes._ And that had been that. His name on the docket, his ship in the crosshairs.

What he'd told Chewie was true: he didn't anticipate any trouble with Jabba here. Hutt politics were worse on Nar Shaddaa than on Coruscant. At least everyone in Imperial City knew who the boss was. Every Hutt with a credit to his name thought they were owed a neighborhood on Nar Shaddaa and a spice supplier. And because the Hutt lifespan was a cool millennium, murder was the only way to eat up someone else's slice of the pie. The smart ones bided their time, waiting in the safety of their own fortresses, as Jabba was doing, for someone else to kill off their largest competitors.

And Leia wasn't a liability in the traditional sense. He had full faith that if things got rough, the princess would take out her blaster and get busy on the double. But she also had vulnerable spots—usually the vulnerable themselves—and there were millions of vulnerable beings on this planet. He'd already caught her eyeing the spice addict on the corner with _that look_ in her big doe eyes. Danger was going to find them on this planet and he suspected it was going to find them because Leia tried to rescue somebody.

He turned to look at Leia and Chewie again. The two were deep in conversation; he could see their mouths moving, could see Chewie gesturing in wide circles. The big lug looked insane, fur flying and bowcaster rattling around on his shoulder.

Han rolled his eyes and settled back against the wall. This fucking mission was gonna kill them all. He just knew it.

* * *

Three hours later, Han kicked off his wall, checked the street to make sure no one was watching him and then made his way back to Leia and Chewie.

"Do you believe me now?" she asked when he got within earshot. "This is a clean deal."

"Ain't no such thing with the Hutts."

She rolled her eyes. "I did my research. We're as safe as we're ever going to be."

Han had a few replies to that statement that he refrained from saying aloud, only because if he got her yelling someone might come looking for them. Pickpockets or slavers: anyone who might exploit a woman in danger for their own gain. It was amazing how Nar Shaddaa seeped into your bones like that.

"Can you man the cams from here?" he asked Chewie instead, eyeing the Wookiee's bag full of surveillance equipment.

Chewie whuffed an affirmative and Han nodded to his first mate, a private signal to take the surveillance duty seriously. Then he turned to the princess, put his hands on his hips and considered her for a good five seconds.

"What?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

"You're gonna stick out like a sore thumb in there. We need to dirty you up some."

Leia made a face. " _Dirty me up?_ I'm with you, aren't I?"

In any other scenario Han would have taken the bait; the temptation to rile her up was nearly unbearable. She was always so fun to flummox, to make angry. Her sputtered shock, the way her lips pursed, into a furious pout, the blood that rushed into her cheeks when she really got going ….

Unfortunately his suggestion to dirty her up hadn't been facetious.

"No one in their right mind would believe you're a local," he said, looking at her meticulously clean fingernails, the unscarred perfection of her face, her beautiful eyes. ""Whaddya think, pal?"

Chewie growled. _Have care, Cub. She's scared._

Leia, scared? He wanted to laugh. "Yeah, yeah," he said as if in agreement, sneaking a look at Leia to see if she'd understood what Chewie had said. "I think you're right."

"Right about what?" she asked, her eyes making circuits between Han and Chewie.

 _You could do much damage to Little Princess,_ Chewie barked. _And you love her—_

"Off-world fuck," Han interrupted, praying to every deity in Corellian lore that Leia's Shyriiwook comprehension hadn't progressed enough to interpret _that_ little slip of Chewie's. "Easiest way to blend you in."

"I don't need to be your…. Your….. _That,"_ she sputtered. "I can blend in just fine on my own."

Han lifted an eyebrow, pointing out without words that she couldn't even say _fuck._ "Unless you can de-royal yourself in a hot minute, offworld fuck is our best bet."

Her eyes slid to the side, her jaw set, her hand clenching into a fist at her side. She was pissed, sure as anything, but Han knew Leia would never do anything so blatantly stupid as argue with him about mission security. And playing her off as anything _but_ an offworld fuck would make things much harder for all of them.

He knew this place. She didn't.

A tense beat and then she nodded, reluctance stamped over her face. "Fine," she said. "I can be your spacer trash girlfriend. But if you try _anything,_ I will kill you with my bare hands."

The image of Leia in combat drills came to Han's mind again, the way exertion brought color to her face, the way her hair escaped from its braid like a living thing freed from a cage. Blunt, naked adoration blew through him, laced with the webbing of fierce respect. She _could_ kill him with her bare hands.

"Understood," he said, nodding once, and then reached his hand out for her to take.


	4. The Intermediary

_The Intermediary_

* * *

 _The Golden Hand_ had a decent air filter, an oddly-generous bartender and a floor littered with refuse and standing water. Dim light speckled the cantina's main floor, leaving recesses where Leia assumed most of the criminal activity occurred. The general environment felt oddly jovial compared to the bleakness of its exterior; here the climate was controlled, here one could find consumables, here the patrons were getting an honest trade: credits for product.

In a weird way, she could understand the appeal.

"You take me to the nicest places," she said in a fair approximation of a simper.

Han looked startled at her voice, squeezed her hand. "Anything for you, sweetheart."

She almost smiled. Despite his bravado, she sensed that Han wasn't entirely comfortable with the act, either. They'd played the part of lovers before—were quite good at it, in fact—but this time felt different, felt like the stakes were higher. Things could go very wrong very fast; it felt like a weight in the air, dragging heavily across her skin like a rake.

They found an open booth across from the cantina entrance, far enough away for a good sight line but close enough for a hasty exit if they needed one. Han stopped short of sitting and gestured for Leia to precede him, giving her the kind of look that told her there would be no discussion on the matter.

Leia narrowed her eyes and slid into the booth, hyper-aware that the typical kind of woman in her position— _off-world fuck,_ he'd called her, and that was so _ugh_ that it made her want to wipe that smug grin off his face—wouldn't argue or cause a fuss. The cracked leather scraped against Leia's pant legs as she sat, the sound aged and rough. Han raised a finger to signal a waitress and then slid smoothly into the booth next to her, blocking her view of the cantina floor. Leia had a strong urge to dig her elbow into his side.

"You're lucky there are witnesses around," she murmured under her breath. "I can't see a thing."

Han turned a bright smile on her and she fought down the rush of heat in her body. "I _am_ lucky _,"_ he agreed. "No complaints. No royal tantrums. It's a great day."

"Tantrums?" she repeated, offended.

Tantrums. Like a child; like an entitled brat. She hated that anyone, least of all this man, could think of her like that.

"You heard me," he said. "Stay in character, baby; you can't cause a scene."

She exhaled in an angry hiss. "You aren't _required_ to be annoying at all times. You could at least try to choose your words carefully."

"I could," he agreed, turning to look at the waitress slinking toward their booth. "But you make the other way a lot more fun."

Leia pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek, biting down the instinct to roll her eyes, and ordered a Gizer ale she didn't intend to drink. She shifted her hips, uncomfortable, and accidentally bumped her left shoulder against Han's arm. He turned away from his examination of the bar to give her a knowing look.

"Is this place offending your refined taste?" he quipped, sliding his arm behind her shoulders and casually resting it on the uppermost edge of the booth. "You aren't used to slumming it."

He was warm next to her; Leia felt torn between wanting more and wanting less of his heat.

" _You_ offend my refined taste. The smoke in here is offending my refined lungs."

He leaned against the high back of the booth: the picture of casual indifference. "It ain't so bad."

"Not so bad?" she asked. "There's a layer of cigarillo smoke clogging my lungs, my shoes are completely drenched with fetid water and I'm about five seconds away from ripping your arm out of its socket if you keep _touching me_ like that."

His fingers stilled on the tip of her shoulder for a slow moment, then curled around her upper arm, pulling her flush to his side and pressing his lips against her left temple.

"C'mon, baby, get dirty with me," he murmured into her hair, low and promising and so baldly sexual that she closed her eyes and parted her lips.

For a brief moment Leia's brain exploded into fantasy, the deep timbre of his voice soaking her brain in desperate images. Like satin through fingertips, the wild flush of physical longing slid through her, stealing her breath and clouding her brain. She understood what was happening—he'd done this before and she'd faced her own naked desire for him as well—and she felt powerless to control her own reactions.

Had this not been happening to her—if she had been hearing about such a moment from, say, her childhood friend Winter—Leia would have shaken her head and smiled. She'd say that there was nothing wrong with sexual attraction unless it got in the way of the mission at hand. She might even suggest that if Winter so clearly wanted this unnamed person, she should follow her desires and get rid of the pent-up want. _What could it hurt?_ she'd say. _If you want him and he wants you and everything is legal?_

But this was not Winter.

"Call me _baby_ one more time and you will be leaving this planet with one less testicle than you arrived with."

Han snorted but leaned away, giving her some space. "That's a little harsh," he said. "If you ruin the goods, you won't be able to enjoy—"

"If you _value_ the goods, you'll stop your sentence right there," she said and lifted the Gizer to her lips to take a slow sip, eyeing him knowingly from above the bottle.

Han flashed a bright grin and then turned to watch the bar once again, dropping his arm from around her shoulders. With the renewed space between them, Leia was able to push the hot desire from her chest. Able to breathe. Able to focus.

"So who's this contact you're so sure isn't gonna kill us?" Han asked from beside her, lifting a tumbler of whiskey to his lips and eyeing the busty waitress at the bar. "What does he look like?"

"She," Leia corrected. "Human from Nar Shaddaa. Black hair, black skin, orange eyes."

Han made a sort of pleading sound low in his throat.

She frowned at the sudden consternation written across his face. "Well, I haven't seen a holo of her but—"

"Captain of the _Starlight Intruder?_ " he asked, then swallowed with uncharacteristic nervousness.

"How did you … _oh, no_."

Fury sparked in Leia's chest, bright and hot, a wave of jealousy that teetered dangerously close to the surface. She tried to rein it in, desperate for the kind of implacable cool that Han himself often used when confronted with an unexpected development. She knew she was only partially successful.

Of course Han had a past with her contact. _Of course_ he did. Out of the billions of beings on this rock, out of the hundreds of thousands of beings who worked as smugglers across the galaxy, the Alliance had contacted a woman who'd met Han Solo before. And based on the look on Han's face—his tight jaw, the look of dread in his eyes, the way his mouth scrunched up to one side—there was a sordid history between the two.

Han hit his head against the back of the booth a few times, closing his eyes and exhaling loudly. "Of all the fucking smugglers on this fucking moon, you hired _Salla_?"

The way he spoke the name, with shock and disbelief but also a note of fondness, made Leia's skin crawl. Sudden images flipped through her mind's eye, anonymous dark skin pressed against deeply-tanned hands she knew far too well. Lips pressed together. Legs threaded through each other: long, strong, beautiful.

Instantly, Salla Zend was everything Leia Organa was not.

Leia tried valiantly to leash her jealousy but the beast roared and growled in its cage. There was no reason to react so strongly. She didn't own Han Solo, didn't have the kind of relationship that warranted freedom to ask about his past with Captain Zend. What was it to her? Who he slept with, who he kissed, who he loved—

"Yes," she answered him, holding onto her mask with a heraldic grip. "She's smuggled for us before. Carlist says she's very dependable."

A low laugh: no humor. " _Rieekan._ "

"I take it you have a past with this woman?" Leia asked, although she already knew the answer.

Han wiped a hand over his mouth and stared at the other side of the booth for a long moment. "Uh," he finally said. "Yeah. I know her."

 _I know her._ Leia felt her bitter jealousy rage against its strict tether but she rallied and pulled herself together. Now was not the time for pettiness or rapaciousness. As with all things, the Alliance came first.

"Is she going to walk in here and shoot us?" she asked, only half-joking.

"No, she's not gonna shoot us," he said, certain. "She's just gonna be … _uh_. I dunno. I didn't end it well."

In any other situation she would have laughed. His discomfort was so strong it was like a presenting illness, worry written in the handsome depths of his eyes. Cocksuredness was a mainstay for the smuggler and here he was without it: very human, very fallable. Emotionally naked in the face of his demons.

"How _not well?_ " she asked, thinking of quick morning retreats and unanswered holo calls.

" _Really_ not well," he said without elaboration.

His words echoed mysteriously in Leia's ears until she had no choice but to either ask for clarification or simply shrug it off. And while her organized, methodical, mission-oriented brain tried to anticipate complications arising from Han's history with Salla Zend, Leia's secret boundless emotional energy raged and stung, heedless of logic.

She had no right to feel … possessive? Jealous? Han and she didn't have a romantic relationship. They were colleagues: friends, even, despite their regular fights and vastly different perspectives. Like Luke, like Wedge. Friends.

In theory, meeting one of Luke's ex-lovers would be amusing but not emotionally taxing; meeting an ex-lover of Han's should feel the same.

But jealousy did not arise from a vacuum.

She'd tried to reason with herself: Han was physically attractive and strictly off-limits. Like all humans, she wanted what she shouldn't have. He was her physical opposite: large to her small, rough to her soft, chaos to her control. More than once she'd reasoned that she should just let go, let him make good on all the ribald talk, surrender to the weight of this … this … _desire._ And then the spell would be broken and she could watch him leave without a sense of pending heartache.

If it had just been about sex, she probably would have followed through with it. She was no meek innocent. But the prospect of one night with Han Solo, a fleeting send-off, a satiation of an appetite like scratching a persistent itch … that didn't appeal to her.

Leia Organa wanted more. She didn't know what that meant but she knew it was dangerous, and though her heart was well-guarded after the events of the past year, she was afraid Han was one of the few people in the galaxy that could find a crack in her fortress.

And then she'd be lost.

She would not let that happen. She had too much to do in this galaxy. Billions of beings depended on her. If her fixation on the smuggler overtook her, she would fail. And Leia would not fail. Period.

Leia bit her tongue, swallowed her jealousy and turned a glare onto her companion. "Have you slept with _everybody_ in the system or only just the moon?"

He opened his mouth to reply but shut it quickly to nod to the muted light of the cantina entrance. Leia leaned forward to see past his torso, resting her elbows on the table to get a decent look.

"There she is," Han said.

Beautiful dark skin gleamed in the low light, high cheekbones cutting through an oval face. Her lips were plump but devoid of color, her hair pulled up into a bun atop her head. Leia could discern a sinewy strength in the line of her arms, biceps pressing into the fabric of her shirtsleeves. Her hands were big, capable, as she gripped a blaster at her side.

Everything about the woman screamed _power_ and _control._

Salla Zend spotted them instantly and walked to their booth with purpose. Not with the grace of a royal princess, more swivel in her hips, but her chin was held high and her shoulders rolled back into what Leia's tutors had called _indomitable weight._ She was a force to be reckoned with and Leia steeled herself for the coming negotiation.

"Hello there, Slick," she said as she slipped into the booth across from them. "Fancy seeing you here."

Han shifted forward, mirroring Leia's position over the table. "Shoulda known you'd pick up the contract," he said. "What's it been, Sal? Five years?"

The newcomer nodded, a glint in her eye. "Closer to ten."

"Huh," Han said, wiping a hand over his mouth. "Seems like yesterday."

Leia hated being a passive observer under even the best of circumstances; the desire to interrupt their reunion was so strong, she had to fight for an amicable, even tone.

"Captain Zend," Leia said with cool detachment. "Thank you for meeting with us."

Salla turned her focus to Leia, orange eyes narrow and cunning. Her eyes reminded the princess of a pouncing cat, feline in her stealth and sharp in her claws.

"You must be Pearl," Salla said to Leia. "It's nice to put a face to a name."

"Likewise," Leia said at the same time as Han sucked in a breath beside her and threw her a look.

"Pearl?" he whispered, though there was no way their contact didn't hear him.

She shrugged, uninterested in explaining the code name to him. "Yes. And you won't call me anything _but_ Pearl while we are here," she instructed.

"Shoulda mentioned it before," he said.

"I'm mentioning it _now,"_ she said, then turned her focus to the woman on the other side of the booth. "Ignore him, please."

Salla smiled with an easy, lofty congeniality. "Honestly, it's the best way to work with him."

" _Hey,_ " Han said. "I'm right here."

Salla nodded but kept her gaze on Leia. "I'm happy to help our mutual friends," she said. "Especially if you're recruiting good mercs like Slick here."

"I'm hired, not recruited," Han said, false mulishness edging his tone.

Leia turned to look at him, sitting close to her, his thigh pressing against hers. She felt mollified by Captain Zend's general pleasantness. Her jealousy hushed into a simmer, and now she was utterly enthralled by the new dynamic before her. Fascinated, like an anthropologist studying an alien culture.

Han Solo and his past: what a novel opportunity this was! At best, he was a pixelated monstrosity of adventure and misdeed; he had to have amassed a collection of people, beings he knew, admired, betrayed. Loved, even.

Salla leaned forward into the low light. "Targeter said you could be trusted."

Leia didn't immediately reply, trying to read the smuggler in front of her as she would have a political opponent. "Targeter does good work for our mutual friends."

Better than good work, actually. Targeter, though an unidentified covert agent funnelling intel to the Alliance from across the galaxy, had done systematic and widespread damage to small enclaves of the Empire. He or she was also responsible for Carlist's recommendation of Salla Zend for this particular brokerage: apparently Zend and Targeter had worked together before.

Leia hadn't asked for details, trusting that Carlist would never put her to unnecessary risk. If he trusted Targeter, then she trusted Targeter. And Targeter trusted Zend. In a galaxy that thrived on chaos, where Leia could trust very few people with her life, she would take recommendations from her confidantes without question.

"Does your client have the merchandise?" Leia asked.

Salla sighed and leaned back. "My client has the merchandise, alright. The question is if he will sell it to you."

"We agreed on thirty thousand," Leia said. "With coordinates and a clean getaway. That was the deal."

"The deal changed," Salla said.

Leia had assumed the Hutts would make further demands. Carlist had assured her that the only designation for the Alliance that Salla had given the Hutts was _mutual friends,_ that they didn't actually know to whom the heaters were going. This lessened—though certainly didn't abolish—the possibility that the Hutts would sell them out to the Empire. And while the designation was an outright lie—the Alliance was no friend to the Hutts, slave-traders as they were—Leia was soothed by Salla's renegotiation efforts. The Hutts would always press their advantage if they could.

She'd negotiated with hundreds of species before and secondary agreements were always a part of it. Hopefully this was a sign that Salla had succeeded in keeping her "friends" a secret from her employers for the time being.

But Leia would show none of that. She knew she often appeared small, young and naive. She'd long ago learned to use such misconceptions to her advantage.

"You can't change the deal," she said. "Our cred is only authorized for thirty thousand."

"Then our friends didn't prepare you well enough," Salla shot back. "And I think you're lying about that."

Leia cocked an eyebrow but didn't otherwise respond.

"You're a better negotiator than that, _Pearl,_ " Salla said, then lowered her voice. "I've seen you debate in your past life."

Leia regarded the woman, even as she felt Han stiffen beside her. She could tell he was about to jump into the conversation; his defensiveness triggered by the sly threat that undershone Salla's words. Without thinking Leia reached out her left hand and squeezed his knee, warning him to stay quiet.

She had this under control.

"If that's true, then you know I get what I want," Leia said, dropping the naive act and tilting her chin back.

"So do my clients," Salla said.

"Your clients also buy and sell sentient beings. I think we can dismiss any of their objections with an honest payment."

Salla sucked in a breath and a brief hush settled over the booth. Leia kept her eyes forward but could feel Han relax. Belatedly she realized she hadn't moved her hand from his knee. Covering for her misaction, she leaned forward and clasped her hands on the table, mirroring Salla's position.

"Hardball," Salla said after a moment, nodding. "I like it. What do you propose?"

Leia smiled gently. "I have thirty thousand. That's all I can pay."

"Sixty," Salla countered.

"Thirty. Our friends don't have sixty."

"Fifty."

Leia just shook her head. "We better go, _Slick,_ " she said, treasuring the brief insight into whatever past Han and Salla shared. "This isn't going anywhere."

"Sounds great, _Pearl,_ " Han said. His tone sounded just as amused as hers had. "Good to see you again, Sal."

Salla eyed their show with amusement, a wry smile quirking her lips. "Fine," she said, as Han was scooting out of the booth. "Thirty-five and a favor."

Han paused, reaching for Leia's hand to help her out of the booth. "Favor?" he repeated, suspicion heavy in his voice. "For who?"

The dark woman's smile widened, flashing white teeth. "For me. I'll kick in an extra five thousand myself and tell my clients you paid forty."

Instantly Leia was suspicious. "That's terribly generous of you."

Too generous. Carlist had faith in this woman because Targeter had faith in her, and Leia would trust Carlist with her life. But this was not in the mission brief. Leia was authorized to spend up to fifty thousand on this deal; she'd never dreamed she could keep the Hutts down to thirty-five.

But this favor was a wrench in the plans. Carlist hadn't known about it; at least, she assumed he hadn't or he would have warned her ahead of time.

"The favor is worth five thousand to me. And now that I know Solo is here to help, I am happy to compensate. Everyone wins."

Leia chanced a look at Han. His brow was furrowed, green eyes dark in the limited light of the booth. "I ain't hauling for you, Sal," he said, voice as dark as his eyes. "Jabba's got a bounty on me. I take one step on the spice routes and I'm a dead man."

Salla rolled her eyes. "Nothing like that. I need a thief. My ex pawned my guild badge from the battle. Stole it right out of my cabin."

 _Guild badge?_ Leia was lost. What was so valuable about a guild badge?

"Steal it yourself," Han groused. "I'm no thief."

But Leia was already in negotiation mode. If she could save the Alliance fifteen thousand credits—? "Do you know where your ex took it?"

" _Pearl,_ " Han growled.

"She pawned it. A splicer bought it downtown—a real bleeding revolutionary, Pearl here would love him—but because he's a splicer, he's got all this advanced tech set-up. I can't breach it."

"And if we get the badge, you'll release the coordinates of our merchandise for thirty-five thousand?" Leia asked.

" _Pearl,_ " Han said, louder.

"I'll take you there myself," Salla said. "We can even take the _Fal_ \- uh … your ride. A good faith showing so you know you aren't jumping into a trap."

"No," Han sputtered. "No, no, no. C'mon, Your Worship. We need to go."

But Leia was already running risk calculations. The trickiest part of the original deal, the part that had made her the most uneasy, was that Salla Zend would provide coordinates for the heaters. It had seemed like a barely-concealed trap. The smuggler could send them to an ambush; she could send them to an Imperial nest; she could send them into a star for all Leia knew. There were a lot of ways to die from a set of bad coordinates.

But _this,_ putting Salla in just as much danger as Han and Leia, seemed like a good idea. And while it sounded like the badge might require some work, Han and Chewie had the experience and skills. To save that large of a sum, Leia would gladly steal a badge from a splicer. Especially one stationed here on Nar Shaddaa.

Leia stuck out her hand. "You have a deal."

Salla smiled, a wide grin splitting her face. "Excellent," she said. "Follow me."


	5. Salla

_Trigger warning: mention of torture in this chapter._

* * *

Salla

* * *

Salla led Han and Leia out of _The Golden Hand_ with terrific speed. The mildew-and-cigarillo-smoke air whipped past Leia's face as they crossed the cantina floor and through the main entrance. She sniffed but fought for an unaffected expression, pressing her hand to the holster on her hip, checking for the reassuring shape of her blaster at her side.

The open air of the bustling street hit her with surprising force, the brown-tinged rain pouring to the ground while pedestrians continued their work unaffected. The half-clad Twi'lek from earlier nearly bumped into Leia, almost a foot taller than the princess and possessing no sense of personal space whatsoever. A waft of cheap perfume accompanied her like a wave of assumed confidence and sexual attraction.

"Don't look down," the Twi'lek said, not unkindly. "He doesn't want her. Look _up._ "

And without another word she moved on, rolling her hips in that hypnotizing infinity-sign shape that Leia had begun to recognize as a uniquely feminine attribute on Nar Shaddaa.

Nobody seemed terribly inconvenienced by the rain: no noticeable change in tempo or mood as the haggard begged and the speeders zoomed. Leia tried to duck her nose into the thin collar of her crew jacket but realized her sight was compromised. Any pickpocket worth his salt would target her and while she wasn't carrying anything valuable, she had no desire to bring attention to herself.

 _Nothing for it, I guess,_ she thought.

With a heavy breath, she brought her chin up, accepting that her hair and clothes were a lost cause. Instead of considering the rain too carefully, she focused on emulating the two smugglers ahead of her.

They made it look so easy.

Salla held her chin high, sweeping her gaze from left to right in what Leia eventually deduced was a habitual pattern: an adapted 180 degree radar. Her boots splashed into puddles with a masculine kind of disinterest, the rain nothing in her wake. The arch of her back—shoulders rolled, rib cage forward, middle vertebrae swayed—foretold confidence in a way that Leia could manage with her voice but not her body.

And Han, scant centims taller than Salla, with his lethargic edge: chin lowered, arms loose at his sides, the slight lean in his posture that purported ease but hid deadly efficiency and indurate capability. His head didn't turn but Leia could imagine his eyes making their broad strokes across the scene.

Ever the strategic collector, Leia filed the information away, desperate to consider herself anything but the liability Han thought she was on this mission.

As the only member of their trio without legs the length of brakva tree trunks, Leia struggled to keep up, fuming to herself about genetics and the plight of the petite human female. The gravel of the unpaved street shifted under her boots, the sound grating on her already frayed nerves as she struggled to keep up with Han and Salla.

"Should we pick up your Wook?" Salla asked, loud and clear to anyone in range. "Might get a bit lonely in that alley."

Leia pressed her lips together, striving to maintain her composure in the face of such bold disrespect to their security. Chewie was well-hidden. Even if Salla had spotted him before she'd entered the cantina, there was no reason to broadcast his presence to anyone within earshot. The smuggler had single-handedly insured that Chewie's position was ruined.

It was difficult to suppress the automatic instinct to distrust Salla when she brought Chewie's safety into question but Leia tried. She filed away the twinge of unease and sidestepped a puddle, thinking _she will save you fifteen thousand credits._

"He'll kill me if we don't," Han said, shrugging and unimpressed with Salla's observational skills. "He's got a soft spot for this one here."

"Excuse me," Leia said, imperious. "I have a name."

Han's voice was deadpan, dull and bored. "Fine. He's got a soft spot for Ruby here. Or Diamond. Uh. Sapphire. Whatever."

" _Pearl_ ," Leia muttered to herself.

She should probably pull him aside at some point and explain the code name; probably should have already done so. She knew he wouldn't have used it against her if he'd known its history. _Mission security_ , she thought. _He has a right to know if it's going to put you in an emotional fit every time he mocks it._

Salla laughed: turned a soft smile toward Leia. "Chewie has a soft spot for you?" she asked. "Really?"

"They're thick as thieves," Han said with grand annoyance. "He's got a hell of a taste in humans."

"How did it fail him so spectacularly with you?" Leia asked, voice splendidly even as she hurried to keep up with them.

Salla laughed harder. "I could barely get Chewie to notice me when I was in the room. Always figured he just didn't like females. You're a lucky woman, Pearl."

Before either Han or Leia could respond, Salla veered a sharp right and navigated with quick efficiency toward the stakeout alley that Leia had shared with Chewie not two hours before. Her long legs splattered the nearby ground with rainwater as her boots hit the gravel and Leia grimaced to notice the bun on top of her head start to wilt to the side.

Leia blinked and caught up to Han. "Talk about a taste in humans," she muttered as she brushed his arm with her shoulder.

Han blew out his breath. "You have no idea."

She rolled her eyes and moved to follow Salla. The swollen sky opened into an outright downpour, dumping water onto every available surface and ricocheting into the air with heavy pings. Disgusted, Leia broke into a jog, seeking the shelter of the alley walls and the enormous bulk of the Wookiee. Her boots slid on the increasingly wet gravel and the brown… the brown was everywhere: in her hair, eyes, lips, mouth.

Chewie huffed a low snicker at her expression—she could hear him as Han and she passed through the alley mouth—and Leia sighed as she pressed herself against the wall next to the Wookiee. From high above her, Chewie roared a general greeting to Salla and Leia could hear the note of surprise beneath the growl.

"Nice to see you again, Chewie," Salla said. "How've you been?"

 _I am well_ , he growled, with a slight nod. _I did not see you enter the cantina._

Salla frowned and turned to Han for clarification while Leia felt Chewie's paw settle on her opposite shoulder, pulling her against him to shield her from the rain. Grateful, she turned a smile to him and winked.

"He didn't see you come into the cantina," Han translated. "And he says that if you knew he was here, why didn't you let him see you enter? If you're on the up-and-up and all?"

Both Leia and Chewie turned to look at Han and Leia realized that she hadn't needed him to translate Chewie's words, that she'd gotten the gist of his sentiment, that Han had expounded on the original words with a heavy flair. It appeared this was a regular occurrence with these two.

She would have to be careful.

Salla put a hand on her hip and addressed Chewie. "I'm not trying to double-cross you, Chewie. Pearl can tell you. This is a straight deal."

 _Pearl?_ Chewie rumbled.

"Your best friend, there," Han said. "The only person you listen to anymore. Apparently we're going by pretend names now."

Leia was amused at the note of … was that jealousy? … in his voice, as if she could supercede Han in the Wookiee's good graces. The idea was laughable, of course, and was probably a product of Han's anxiety. His tell. A sign of the danger they were in.

But still. Amusing.

 _I trust Pearl,_ Chewie growled. _I do not know if I trust you yet._

A tense beat of silence as the imposing Wookiee eyed Salla and Han with a knowing look. Leia was nearly overcome with the desire to ask Chewie, right then and there, how Han had ended his relationship with Salla and what she had done to earn his tight stare.

Wild speculation could wait, though, and this was certainly not the time. If only because the rain was becoming a full-blown monsoon by the look and feel of it. Even shielded by Chewie's arms, water fell into Leia's eyes, down her face, drenching her shirt and trousers. Visibility was down to ten meters at most. They were in exposed territory. They needed to move.

" _I_ trust her," Leia breathed. "Trust me, Chewie."

In the storm, sheltered by his massive frame, Leia felt a flicker of warmth in her chest, a bundled nestle of friendship and adoration for the being next to her.

 _Hell of a taste in humans,_ Han had said.

She pressed her hand into the fur on Chewie's back, a friendly pressure, expressing gratitude that he wanted to protect them, that he was her friend, that he was sheltering her from the rain even as his fur was becoming drenched, too.

Chewie made a soft, congenial sound and then barked: _Then what is the plan? And does it involve getting Little Princess out of the rain?_

"Yeah," Han nodded, throwing water everywhere. "Where to, Sal?"

Salla smiled: bright, beautiful. Authentic. "I have a secure place up north a bit. In the Shocks."

Han cocked an eyebrow. "How secure? Like that dive on Ryloth? Because I sure as hell ain't hauling all your asses out of a swamp." He paused. "Again."

Leia was overcome by curiosity but suppressed it in favor of a more practical question. "How far?"

Salla's eyes moved from Han to Leia before she answered Leia's question first. "Thirty minutes by speeder. And the dive on Ryloth was your fault, not mine, Solo. Don't think I don't remember that."

Han squinted into the air, obviously trying to remember, then turned a questioning look to Chewie. At the Wookiee's nod, Han scowled and then shifted toward Leia, obviously wanting to avoid follow-up questions.

"Whaddya say, Boss?"

 _Oh, so now I'm the boss?_ Leia thought, throwing Han a narrow, dry look that she hoped communicated the depth of her annoyance with his attitude. From trust to teasing to withholding: he'd run the pure gamut of the emotional spectrum so far and it was barely midday.

But that was not important at the moment.

Leia dropped her eyes, mind flying through the options available to them. Credits to buy a speeder, at least an hour's travel time round-trip, another two to three hours to hear more about Salla's proposed mission. For a deal secondary to their original one? That was a lot of extra expenditure.

But then she considered the potential gains: fifteen thousand credits brought back to the Alliance that she'd thought were as good as spent. A potentially good relationship with a reliable intermediary in Nar Shaddaa who could broker future deals.

The opportunity to dig a little deeper into Han Solo's past.

And if Han had truly thought that Salla Zend would betray them, they would already be on their way back to base. Leia had no doubts about that.

"We go," she said.

Salla nodded, pleased, and Chewie rumbled a quiet note of encouragement. Han looked unhappy but resigned, rubbing his temple with a hand dripping with brown rainwater.

"Fine. But we take our own speeder," he said, directing a sharp look to Salla. "And we stay within sight of it at all times."

"Of course," Salla said, opening her hands. "I would expect nothing less. I'll send you the coordinates."

Han grunted under his breath, nodding in faux excitement. "Great. Coordinates. Great."

Salla put her hands on her hips. "Oh, cheer up, Solo. It'll be fine. I'll even throw you a bone and give you a hint on where to find a decent speeder around here."

 _We can handle that_ , Chewie rumbled. _We only need the coordinates_.

"We're good," Han translated, though Salla looked like she'd understood Chewie. "I know a guy."

"If you're heading to Xaltro, you should know that he's dead," Salla warned. "Troskl, too. Things have been heating up around here lately and you've been gone for a spell, Slick."

Han paused and Leia almost asked what had happened to these two beings. The stories Han had told her about the players on Nar Shaddaa were macabre and fascinating. He'd once mentioned a woman he'd known out here, a medic who had stood outside of cantinas at the end of the cycle with her med pack and waited for fights to break out. She'd stand in plain sight of the fighters and say nothing to dissuade them. And then after the fight she'd offer her services for a favor.

 _Sweet deal_ , Han had said. _Get patched up quick for a favor? It's a hard offer to refuse in the moment you need it._

She collected these favors like they were Farsorian fire gems: categorically entering them into the datapad on her arm. Some were paid with credits. But some were paid with access to the crime lords, with influence and conversations and whispered reminders that they owed her their lives. All of it held secure in her armband datapad, waiting for collection.

Her web of influence had been spun with incredible speed; within two years, she owned enough blackmail material to control the local crime lord, Grouka the Hutt, three times over. She'd managed to have a stake in Grouka's glitterstim operation, his most profitable asset. She was the largest fish in the pond, and they all knew it.

And then one day she'd walked past an addict, one who owed her a considerable debt, and he stabbed her in the stomach with a vibroknife. As she slowly died from a treatable injury, ghastly pale and bleeding, the addict commed Grouka. Within minutes the Hutt's entire entourage was congregated on the street with medical supplies in hand: bacta and mentlil and a host of other items, all of which could have easily saved her life.

But they just stood there.

As she pleaded for help—just a painkiller, just something to stem the flow of blood and viscera spilling from her wound—Grouka and his minions watched. She begged, cried, offered everything she had to her name, renounced her small empire in the face of her own mortality as she had done to countless others. And still they just watched. For hours.

 _Did you see this happen yourself?_ she'd asked, horrified.

 _Nah,_ he'd said. _Not my scene. But that's the kind of shit you see in Nar Shaddaa. That's how it goes. You're born, you cheat, you die._

"That's too bad," Han said. Leia shook her head to clear the old conversation from her mind, the not-so-muted horrors. "Troskl was good people. But I got someone else. We'll be fine."

Salla smiled. "Alright then. I'll see you there in, what, three hours? Four? If you're going to see Cralkym, it'll take you at least—"

"It's not Cralkym and you can stop trying to get me to tell you their name," Han said, stepping away from his alley wall and gesturing broadly for Salla to leave. "Goodbye, Sal."

Salla's smile turned into a smirk as she waved her fingers and turned to the alley mouth. "Alright. Good luck, then. I'll see you in an hour."

She stepped into the street, her dark hair a sodden mess and her thin shirt soaked through by the rain, but her confident smile seemed to come through the back of her head as she slipped into the crowd of beings.

Leia waited until Salla had disappeared entirely, then turned an expectant look to Han. "Who has a speeder for us? And how much will they want for it?"

Han shared a weighted look with Chewie, then winced when he turned back to Leia. "Xaltro."

Leia looked from Han to Chewie and back to Han again, unsure if she'd heard him correctly. "I thought Salla said Xaltro was dead?"

"Yeah," Han said, leaning back against his alley wall and tapping his thigh with a hand. "That's a problem."

Leia dropped the back of her head against Chewie's arm, pleading with the Force, the goddess, _whoever_ , for the patience to deal with this man.

* * *

The solution presented itself in the form of grand theft landspeeder.

Han and Chewie, oblivious to Leia's moral discomfort, prowled the streets near their alley, looking for whatever it was they looked for when stealing someone else's property. Leia hung back as they worked, within sight and sound of their efforts, and practiced her local aesthetic mimicry. Rolling her shoulders back, lowering her chin from its regal elevation, she paced back and forth along the block.

It felt wrong. She felt hunched and obvious in her efforts, But Leia Organa did not quit. Ever.

On her third pass by the designated speeder—focusing on Zend's curious hip-swivel—Leia heard a crunch and a Wookiee growl of triumph.

"That'll do it," Han said. "C'mon, Pearl. Time to end the beauty pageant over there."

Leia scowled but dropped the act and hurried to the speeder. "Not a pageant," she muttered in his direction. "I'm trying to _at least_ manage to be an on-world fuck."

Han burst into laughter as he slid into the backseat of the speeder. "Well, look at that, Chewie. Pearl's got a mouth on her after all."

Chewie growled, already settled in the driver's seat. _Some of us already knew that, Cub._

Leia hopped into the speeder's front passenger seat and turned to glare at the smuggler behind her. "I guess you don't know everything about women yet," she said.

Then she turned around and prepared for the journey ahead of them, Han's laughter renewed in the seat behind her.


	6. The Outer Shocks

_The Outer Shocks_

* * *

"Another klick," Han said, looking at his datapad and then out the speeder's clear weather-barrier, frowning.

The district where Salla had sent them was not one Han had ever seen before. He'd mostly stuck to the areas right outside the spaceport, and since he'd never actually lived on this moon, he hadn't had cause to visit any of the settlements outside of the main Hutt-controlled areas. He'd been here for his contacts, for jobs and for Salla for a spell. Not to sightsee.

He sure as hell hadn't missed any of it in the past year and a half. Alliance bases might be uglier than fuck, but the rebels at least kept them smelling decent most of the time.

The rain had stopped ten minutes into their journey but the wind made the weather-barrier necessary, whipping Leia's hair and Chewie's fur into twin furies. And as the spaceport district receded behind them, the environment had grown steadily shabbier: buildings in disrepair, pedestrians haggard and thin, the air heavy. While nothing looked obviously different between the Outer Shocks and the rest of Nar Shaddaa—tall buildings, green clouds, grit and grime everywhere—this goddamned area made Han furious.

He'd done his best to avoid the Shocks every time he'd found himself on Nar Shaddaa. The slave settlement was famous for its proximity to the East Nar Shaddaa spaceport district and for the pillars of shock wands that encircled it. Slaves were outfitted with a receiver chip embedded under the skin of their upper back near enough to humanoid spinal cords to pose a mortal risk. If a slave tried to leave the settlement for any reason other than relocation to a new owner, the shock wands sent an electrical charge through the chip. Rumor had it the end result was grisly and fatal.

The Shocks were an open secret around here: everyone knew _where_ they were and _what_ they were but no one bothered to care. You kept your nose clean and kept yourself out of the Shocks. You didn't fuck with anyone higher up in the spice chain than you or piss off the wrong person, and you'd be fine. The poor bastards in the Shocks weren't usually people who'd worked for the Hutts; they were part of the natural consequence of what Leia would call _an unfair socioeconomic system._ They were born into slavery and they would die in slavery. Most of them were barely considered _people_ at all.

No free being in their right mind would come out here.

Han grimaced and swept a hand over his mouth, glancing at Leia in the seat in front of him. Spine rigid and lips pinched, it was obvious she knew what she was seeing as they passed row after row of slave hovels. Fury radiated from her, savage hatred infused her clenched fists: the most beautiful kind of aggression he'd seen from her except for maybe when she had to say the words _Darth Vader_ out loud _._

Her anger was an old friend. He could read it like it was stamped across her forehead. She didn't launch into a political diatribe about the economic system that benefited from slave labor. She didn't look shocked. This wasn't a fresh wound. Han suddenly wondered if this wasn't the first slave settlement she'd ever visited.

His eyes flicked to Chewie and then returned to Leia.

"I can't do anything for these people," she murmured. To herself: certainty heartbreakingly apparent in her voice. He didn't think she knew she'd said it out loud.

And her voice was so pained, so angry and hopeless, that he said exactly what he thought for once: no smuggler act, no braggadacio. "You already are, Leia."

No nicknames. No sarcasm. Because one of the few things in the galaxy they openly agreed on was the buying and selling of sentient beings. No one had that right. _No one._ It was the reason Han had saved Chewie, the reason he'd been court-martialed from the Imperial Navy.

He'd ruined his best chance for redemption from his orphan childhood because of this very belief and he had never, _never,_ regretted making that decision.

She turned her head to look at him, incredible eyes wide and enormous, and then returned to staring out the barrier. "It's not enough."

Chewie glanced at Han and then turned back to the speeder's controls, but his look had communicated plenty. As if Chewie could love Leia Organa any more than he already did; as if that look hadn't reminded Han that when not in her presence, Chewie had begun referring to her as _your mate_ in every conversation they had _._

Furball thought it was funny, Han supposed.

 _Do you know what this favor is?_ Chewie asked, obviously trying to resolve the tense atmosphere in the speeder. _What Salla wants?_

"She wants us to steal a guild badge from a pawn broker," Leia answered. "And, actually, I need some clarification on why a badge would be so important."

 _A guild badge? From the battle?_ Chewie whuffed.

"Yeah, pal, I think so."

Leia blinked at Chewie, obviously awaiting more information. When it wasn't offered, she asked, "Which battle?"

Han hated the way his copilot acted when Leia asked about uncomfortable subjects, particularly parts of his past that Han would rather forget. The Wookiee, amused, crowed. Loudly. _Do you want me to tell the story, Cub?_

Han rolled his eyes. "No thanks," he said, then hurried to start the explanation before Chewie could do it for him. "A few years back, we did a thing and used badges to help us know who to trust. Salla had hers stolen from her. That's all you need to know."

"I think I should be the judge of what I need to know," Leia said. " _My_ mission, remember?"

She turned to give him an angry glare. There was no bite behind it, though, no teeth to her words, and Han understood that Leia wasn't trying to pry. She was largely just … curious

 _I still have my badge. Gave it to Malla for safekeeping._ Chewie growled, rebuking. _Tell Little Princess about it. She would want to know what you did._

"What did you do?"

Han cursed Chewie and his stupid language lessons; things had been so much easier when Leia couldn't understand the Wookiee. Simpler. The two of them were compatriots now, and that was _exactly_ what Han didn't need.

"Just … a thing," he answered, squirming. "It's not a big deal."

The Battle of Nar Shaddaa _had_ been a big fucking deal: famous even. There was a good chance Leia might even know of it. From what he'd heard of her life on Alderaan, she'd been political straight from the womb—er, adoption papers, at least—and the guild had scored a big victory against the Empire that day. He'd heard plenty of the Alliance fighter jockeys talking about it with hushed reverence, unknowingly discussing the battle right under the nose of the person who had engineered and led the whole assault.

But he had a feeling that if Leia knew how vital of a role he'd played in the battle—the strategy, the execution, the drills and leadership and pure guts it had taken to defeat Admiral Greelax—she'd push even harder for him to take a commission. She had no idea how hard he found it to sneer and turn away when she asked him _now;_ how could he possibly fight back once she knew, really knew, what he had done against the Empire at Nar Shaddaa? How much he'd _liked_ it, how much he wished it was enough to cancel out the debt to Jabba?

The Battle of Nar Shaddaa had been a personal achievement, a sign of the times. The Empire had made criminals out of so many that fighting them here had felt like vindication. For Han, because the Imps had taken what he had thought was his only chance at a decent life in the stars. For Salla because Nar Shaddaa was her home and she had a right to defend her home even if she had few other rights. For Lando and Mako and Chewie and Xaverri and all the rest, because the Empire had made enemies out of so many that even the worst of the worst could unite to oppose them.

But it had been Han who had taken control of the group, had found himself leading the effort. And secretly _he'd liked it._ And if Leia Organa ever found out, she'd be unstoppable. Han couldn't stay with the Alliance—Jabba was going to find him someday and when he did Han was going to have to be alone, _period_ —but Leia, _fuck,_ Leia could make him forget why he was going in the first place.

She already did, every time she looked at him with those eyes and asked him to stay. She was dangerous; she'd get him killed.

No, it was even worse than that: she could get _herself k_ illed. Just through association.

"Okay," Leia said, interrupting the maudlin thought. "Fine. So this badge is a personal item. Something of worth to Salla."

 _Why would she care about the badge?_ Chewie rumbled.

Han shrugged. "No idea. It was just a cheap plastex thing. Wouldn't get much on the pawn market. Wonder why the ex sold it."

Chewie's growl was low, wordless, tailing off into a hush. Leia was quiet, looking out the barrier and into the slave hovels that whipped past the speeder. Han thought she had checked out of the conversation, focused on the ugliness outside.

But then she said, low and with the weight of experience: "You can't put a price on personal items."

Han snorted. "That's _exactly_ what pawning is, sweetheart."

"No, I mean…" she trailed off, then turned to look at him over her left shoulder. "I would give anything I have or could steal for one artifact from Alderaan. Anything."

Han swallowed, uncomfortable and unable to look away.

"The ex might have confused what Salla found important about the badge with financial worth and pawned it, hoping for a payout. But Salla keeping the badge? And wanting it back?" Leia turned away, settling into the speeder's upholstery. "That might not be quantifiable."

Chewie huffed an untranslatable sound of comfort and Han looked down at his comm, at the list of coordinates Salla had sent him. Leia's pain, her loss, the nearly-tangible devastation she sometimes let slip through her tough mask: there was nothing he could do or say in response to it. It was better to keep quiet.

Even smugglers, even _he,_ had a sense of human commiseration for the depth of Leia's pain. Nothing he'd been taught. Nothing _anyone_ had been taught. And yet on the rare occasions in which she spoke of Alderaan, everyone reacted the same way. Like the entire galaxy had been sat down and told to shut the hell up and respect the woman who'd watched it happen.

The coordinates sharpened. The numbers fell into zeroes and Han broke the somber stillness to murmur, "We're here."

* * *

Salla's secure spot was a slave hovel in the middle of a row of slave hovels smack-dab in the center of a slave-hovel settlement. The duracrete wasn't in disrepair, at least, but Han could spot three or four serious problems with the foundations of the building where Salla met them, leaning against a door jamb: one foot crossed over the other and lips turned up into a familiar, cocky smirk. She'd changed out of her wet clothes from earlier and her hair was out of the bun, bursting from her head like a living thing freed.

"Hey there, Slick," Salla shouted over the speeder's engine. "You're right on time."

Han grunted under his breath as Chewie deactivated the weather-barrier. The wind immediately found purchase in Leia's hair, whipping loose tendrils from her braid and making the princess scowl. Han hopped out of the back seat of the speeder, offering a hand.

And, predictably, she rejected him, launching herself from the idling speeder and cocking an eyebrow at him as she passed.

"Come on in," Salla said, stepping aside to let Leia through first, then Chewie, and finally Han.

Dark and drab, the hovel was small with a low roof and a matted interior carpet, the ground floor of a building that rose high above them. Bedrooms were accessible through a short hallway to the left of the door jamb. To the right was what Han assumed to be an entertainment area without any of the staples of entertainment. Even the _Falcon_ had a working holoport and the dejarik table; this … this had nothing but a threadbare chair, a low table and two high-backed stools. Holey curtains blew through the doorway, and Han suddenly realized the hovel had no actual door. Maybe in the past a wooden slab would have hung over the threshold, but now the curtains were all that stood between the elements and the people inside. Good thing the wind wasn't cold; good thing the rain had stopped.

At the very least food was bubbling in a condenser apparatus near his left elbow. The smell was _good,_ like unsweetened ryshcate, and he wondered if Salla had made the effort on his behalf.

"Not my place," Salla said, and settled herself on the chair. "It's awfully tragic what a hundred credits and a ryshcate will get you around here."

Han caught Leia's look, a furious storm about to descend, and reached out to grip her upper arm. With a squeeze he tried to communicate that Salla hadn't meant any disrespect to the tenants—if slaves could truly be tenants in a prison like this one—but to the system that left them clamoring for a hundred credits and a hunk of extra food.

"So the ryshcate isn't for me," Han said, trying to lighten the mood. "I'm hurt, Sal."

Salla grinned but her orange eyes didn't smile with her, and Han got a very bad feeling about … _fuck._ A bad feeling about _everything_. Something in the set of her shoulders. Something about their location. Something about everything made him want to turn tail and _run,_ blaster out and firing. He'd had a nagging sense of doom about this mission from the get-go, but now the feeling was unassailable, goliath. Overwhelming.

"I'm not your woman, Slick. Go make your own ryshcate," Salla said, fake smile still in place.

Leia turned a glance to him and then swung her gaze the other way in a move so fast Han thought it wouldn't register on a normal comm-timer. "I want to leave more credits for the people who live here. Can you arrange that?"

"No. You can't," Salla said, and there was true regret there. Whatever else she was, Salla wasn't heartless. Remorse lined her sparse words. "You give them credits, they spend the credits, and they'll be put on a watch list or punished or charged with stealing. I gave the maximum any family group is allowed to have."

"By whom? There's no police force here." Leia's voice was brittle, wrought.

"By anyone. Trust me, if you want to help them you just have to do what you're already doing with the Alliance."

Han jerked and Chewie growled, threat obvious in his tone even to Salla. Up until this point the princess and her intermediary both referred to the Alliance as their _mutual friends._ No one had dared say _Alliance._ Treasonous to Imperials and the Hutts … well, the Hutts were fans of the break in tariffs the Moffs granted them. And the blind eye they turned to the slave auctions in the Outer Rim. A Hutt would gladly turn over a few rebels for the bounty alone.

"You tryin' to kill us?" Han said, his _bad feeling_ igniting under the reckless fuse of Salla's words.

But Leia was much calmer, much more collected than the crew of the _Falcon_ was _,_ and Han suddenly remembered that she was, for all intents and purposes, quite experienced in espionage.

"I'm assuming there are no informants here?" she asked, as if inquiring about the weather. "Because if there are, and if I find out about them, I will kill you."

Cold, razor-sharp and dripping with capability. Leia Organa had been reduced to her basic grit, the strength and utility that had saved her life—and his, if he was gonna be fair—many times. Salla pressed her lips together, watching Leia with careful eyes.

"No," Salla said after careful consideration. "This place is clean. No one comes into the Shocks."

 _You're sure?_ Chewie growled.

Salla didn't answer him, turned instead to Leia, orange eyes serious. "I'm sorry for the intrigue, Your Highness. I had to play the part until we got out here."

Han noted the change in Salla's voice, the slight veneration in her address to Leia. The dip in her chin, the way her lips parted as she breathed. It felt like Salla's playfulness had been immediately discarded, the nuances of her personality falling away like scraps. Han didn't know if Salla was rising or falling to Leia's level, but suddenly Salla Zend was serious. Deadly serious.

"The part?" Han asked.

But Leia ignored him, pursed her lips and tilted her head. "You were being watched at _The Golden Hand."_

Not a question: a statement. One upon which a whole host of complications arose. If someone was listening in on Salla, they knew about the deal, knew about _Pearl._ And if they didn't already know who Pearl was, Salla had damn well put it out there with all that talk of negotiations and past lives.

"Yes," Salla answered.

Chewie roared loud and ferocious and Han's hand convulsed. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as if electrified, as if the Shocks had tazed him. His eyes flew to Leia, small, confined, as she sat cross-legged on the ragged carpet. Her eyes were on Salla, her hands resting in her lap as if she was meditating. Did she not understand? Hadn't she heard?

"You sold us out," Han said, then gritted his teeth, his fist clenching at his side.

He could be over to the chair in three steps. Chewie would stand in front of Leia, knowing Han would want him there. Salla was a good pilot and she handled herself alright on the ground, but Han was bigger, faster. He could take her down. No question. He had no desire to kill Salla, but if she had betrayed him, if she had put Leia in danger, he would do what he needed to do to get his princess off this goddamned planet in one piece.

"Solo, c'mon. I didn't sell you out!"

But Han had moved past questioning and was now tearing through green clouds and nests of TIE fighters in his mind. He reached for the DL-44 on his thigh, eyes tight, calculating angles and aim.

"Right," he muttered and checked Leia's position. Would she be in the line of fire?

She hadn't moved, was eyeing him, his stance, the hand hovering beside his blaster.

"Who the fuck do you think I am? I'm gonna sell you out for not marrying me?" Salla shouted. "I ditched the bug once we got outside!"

 _You didn't tell us we were in danger in the alley,_ Chewie roared. _You lured us here like nerfs to slaughter._

"They had eyes on us on the street, too. A Twi'lek prowling around the cantina," Salla said, turning to Chewie and lifting her palms up. "I brought you here because it's safer. C'mon, guys, you know me better than this."

Han shook his head, survival instinct fully engaged. He was furious, anger and betrayal seeping into his chest like parasites: they didn't belong there, not at all. Salla was a mercenary but she wasn't a _mercenary._ Like Han himself, she had a personal code that dictated how bad she was willing to be in service to her own survival. And she had no love for the Empire.

But none of that seemed to matter to him. The only thing preventing him from at least stunning Salla was Leia's odd quiet, the way she simply sat there on the floor, watching them all with eyes that didn't look panicked. Eerie, almost. The way the kid sometimes looked.

"Leia?" he muttered.

The princess licked her lips, blinked, and then hopped up and moved to stand by Salla. In one fell swoop, Leia managed to prevent Han from shooting the smuggler behind her.

With an angry hiss Han moved his hand away from his blaster. "You gotta be kidding me."

 _Little Princess,_ Chewie growled.

"Who is _they?"_ Leia asked, turning.

"The Imps," Salla said, relief obvious in her tone. "I had no choice. Grouka is in their pocket. Or they're in his. I don't know which has the upper hand at this point. But they know you're here and they're coming for you."

Sluiced with jittery anxiety, Han was nearly ready to burst from his skin and haul his Wookiee and princess into the speeder. _They're coming for you._

He knew it. He'd _known_ it.

"I thought Grouka was dead," Han said, the only thread of thought he had in his head aside from _move_ and _I knew it._

"Yeah," Salla said. "That's a popular misconception. He's trying to lure Jabba here. Wants to kill him and take over his spice lanes."

 _Fuck._ The only word Han could think, loud and pounding and _loud._ "Fuck."

Salla nodded. "Exactly. We have to get you out." Her eyes caught Han's and in them he saw real, true compassion: a sliver of humanity, the same one he'd seen the day he'd left. "All of you. You should never have come here."

Han crossed his arms over his chest, thinking. Call up Goldenrod and get him to initiate startup sequences. A half hour to return to the spaceport. Get to the _Falcon_ and bust out of this infernal moon like it was death itself. As long as the Imps hadn't moved yet, they could do it. And even if they _had_ moved, the _Falcon_ could handle enough resistance to get them to lightspeed.

"No."

One word and all activity stopped around them: the air, the scent of ryshcate, the wind howling outside. One word from Leia in her low, authoritative voice, and the moon stopped spinning. Han's chest contracted, a sharp pull in his lungs like a hook sinking deeper into muscle and bone and blood until he was mute, eyes swivelling toward her.

"We can't leave yet," she continued. "We need the heaters."

And Han lost all hope of getting her off the moon in one piece.


	7. The Third Arm

_The Third Arm_

* * *

"What the hell kind of motherfucking crazy idea… _we are leaving, Leia."_

She winced, fully understanding why Han was yelling, arms spread wide, eyes lunatic, mouth spluttering and gaping. This was his furious look, this was Han Solo in full battle-mode against a sea of enemies larger than the moon on which they stood.

She _knew._ She'd seen him like this before.

And she also knew that she would fight him. Long, hard battles: she'd fight him on this point through the highs and lows of their outright warfare until he got it through his thick skull that she wasn't leaving without her payload. That she _couldn't_ leave.

The Alliance couldn't survive as they were, hemorrhaging credits into new bases every few months only to evacuate them later. That was not a sustainable strategy to bring down the Empire; that was how revolutions were destroyed. Even Leia with her righteous fury and Luke with his endless hope and Han with his ruthless pragmatism couldn't do anything without credits.

They needed a base. A long-term base. And their best chance was a tiny, hostile planet that no one could name off the top of their head. Their best chance to defeat the Empire started right here, right now. And Leia was not about to let that chance slip through her fingers.

"The offer is real?" she asked Salla without turning to look at her, eyes still keyed on Han. Watching him fume like he was a poisonous insect about to strike. "You actually have access to four hundred enviro-stabilizers?"

Salla paused, then said, "Yeah. I know where the heaters are. But Grouka isn't actually—"

"—selling them, yes, I figured," Leia answered, still looking at Han. His lips pressed tightly together: he looked as if he was stifling his words but Leia knew that was ridiculous. Han didn't _stifle._ "What if we stole them instead?"

Quiet like a thunderstorm. So present, so heavy, that Leia found herself holding her breath, eyeing Han with a look she knew he hated. The one that told him she had already made up her mind. The one that told him he'd already lost not only the battle but the war, too.

"No," he sputtered. "Not a chance in hell, Leia. Are you _insane_?"

"Yes," she answered him, then turned to look to Salla. "Grouka already sold us out; he sold you out, too, by extension. If the Empire is coming for us…"

She let the thought hang in the air, unspoken, but everyone finished it for her in their heads. _If the Empire is coming for us, they're coming for you, too._

And then she brought it home, gave Salla the option she so desperately needed. Even if she didn't know that she needed it yet. "Join the Alliance. We can keep you safe."

The mire was already too thick for Salla here. If she was a decent being—and Leia suspected she was—the smuggler couldn't deliver her Alliance contacts to the Empire. Targeter trusted her, which meant Carlist trusted her, which meant Leia trusted her.

And if Han had almost married her…

 _A thought for another time, Leia,_ she thought, and moved on.

If Salla didn't deliver them to the Empire, Grouka the Hutt would be put in the crosshairs. The Moffs might reveal Grouka's continued survival as punishment for welching on a deal. And while Leia didn't particularly care about a being who tortured and enslaved sentient beings, she understood that Grouka would take revenge on Salla if she didn't deliver them to the Moffs. Salla's only hope then would be that someone would kill Grouka before he had a chance to put a bounty on her.

Which meant her survival was based entirely on Jabba taking out Grouka before Grouka could take out Salla.

Salla's best hope was the Alliance any way she squared it.

"Ah, _fuck,"_ Han said and threw out his hands. "You're–what are you doing, Sal?"

Salla ignored him: cocked an eyebrow. "Yeah, I don't think the Rebel Alliance is much safer than Nar Shaddaa, Highness. Thanks but no thanks."

 _Sounds about right,_ Chewie growled.

Leia threw a betrayed look his way— _I thought you were on my side!_ —and then refocused on Salla. "What other choice do you have? You can't just sell us the stabilizers; Grouka knows who we are and the Moffs will be onto him if you don't hand us over to them. You either turn us in or you help us. It's as simple as that."

Han jumped in again, eyes angry. "Sal—"

"Han here can attest to the relative safety of the Alliance," Leia interrupted him. "He's taken refuge with us from Jabba for nearly eighteen months now."

Han spluttered a series of words in angry denial, but none of it formed a coherent sentence. She learned a long time ago how to render him speechless just as he had learned her own triggers. And while his aim always seemed to be her rabid anger, she was more precise, surgical. She wanted him out of this conversation _now,_ before he had an opportunity to sway Salla's decision.

 _She's … not wrong, Cub,_ Chewie rumbled, low and quiet.

And Leia looked, really looked, at Salla Zend, at her eyes, at her hands, and the the grit and nettle of this woman whom Han trusted even as he claimed he'd ended their relationship badly. A woman who, by any rights Leia could see, should hate the man at her back but warned him of danger even as it put herself in danger, too.

"I think you would rather help us," Leia added quietly, honesty lining her words. "I think you know it's the right thing to do. I think you know you are capable of more than what you do here on Nar Shaddaa."

Hush settled: wiry and stinging. Han's anger, Salla's moral quandary, Chewie's interested rumbles. But Leia knew, she _knew,_ that Salla was not going to betray them. Something in the line of her mouth and the awful look of old love that she had sent Han many times over the course of their three conversations… Something told Leia that even if she couldn't outright trust Salla, she could depend on her to do what the smuggler thought was generally the right thing.

"Shit," Han said from behind Leia. "Sal, _no._ She's out of her fucking mind. "

Leia pursed her lips, held a beat and then said, "Doesn't mean I'm wrong."

 _Little Princess, there is much danger here,_ Chewie growled. _Both the Hutts and the Empire are coming for you. You need to leave now while you still can._

"They're always coming for me," she said, tilting her chin up. "That is nothing new. And I would rather they come for me when I'm prepared."

"Prepared? What makes you think you're prepared?" Han sputtered. "You go anywhere near those heaters and you'll have Grouka _and_ the local Moff on you faster than flies on a bantha."

Leia gestured to Salla, still sitting in the chair across the room from her. Salla, who watched them with careful, settled eyes.

"Her," Leia answered. "She's what makes me think we're prepared."

Han's eyes cut to Salla then returned to Leia and she saw the first signs of acceptance—grudging, mean acceptance, but acceptance nonetheless—in the mottled green.

"This is crazy," he grumbled. "Both of you. Crazy."

Chewie rumbled, low and uneasy: echoing his captain's sentiments. _You place too much trust in her. You do not know what Cub did to her._

Salla didn't seem to comprehend what Chewie said. But Leia did. "I trust Carlist, Chewie. And—"

She fixed Han with a look, infused it with all the trust, all the hope she had for him in her best moments, the belief in his ability and his character.

"—Han's got a hell of a taste in humans," she said.

Han winced but nodded, her meaning clear. Leia didn't trust Salla because she wanted to trust Salla; she trusted Salla because Han trusted her. And Leia trusted Han Solo with her life explicitly. Even when she didn't trust him to stay, even when she didn't trust him not to hurt her when he left.

"Fine," he acceded. "Fine. Where do we start?"

* * *

As it turned out, they started with the guild badge.

"It's not just the badge that I want back," Salla began as she scrounged through the lackluster pantry. Triumphant, she tossed Han four meager ration bars—one for Han and Leia each and two for Chewie—and then returned to sit in the chair across from Leia. "It has the coordinates of the heater warehouse encoded in it."

"Why?" Leia asked.

Salla winced. "Grouka doesn't communicate by comms anymore; he seems to think Jabba's listening in on the comm frequencies. The few of us who know he's alive have to set up a series of backdoor channels. He wanted my badge as a sign of my loyalty."

"And he encoded the coordinates on it?" Han said, squinting. "That's shady spy shit right there, Sal."

"You don't understand," she said. "Grouka is super paranoid. There's only about thirteen people on Nar Shaddaa who know he's alive. I would bet my cred chip that he's watching all of us like his life depends on it."

 _Because it does,_ Leia thought.

"So he asks you for a valuable item, you give it to him, he encodes it with the merchandise coordinates," Leia said. "He does this with every job you do for him?"

Salla nodded. "It's quite clever, if you think about it. If Jabba got his hands on any of us, he wouldn't be able to prove we work for Grouka. There's no line back to him. That is, of course, if Jabba actually _does_ think Grouka's alive. I'm not so sure he does. Plus..."

"You have a personal stake in the job," Han finished for her.

The smuggler nodded, the bun atop her head moving, too. "It was awful, giving up the badge like that."

 _Why?_ Chewie growled. _Why is the badge so important to you?_

Salla looked to Han for translation, who waved a hand and said, "Why's it so important?"

Leia dropped her eyes, remembering what she'd said to Han and Chewie about Alderaanian artifacts. She knew very well how important an object could become by association. She wanted her mother's favorite crown; she wanted a pair of her father's shoes; she wanted an arallute to care for. All of these things meant nothing except that they reminded her of home, of people, of a culture that no longer existed.

She understood. Whatever association Salla had with the badge, it was important to _her,_ if not to Han.

Salla cleared her throat. "Look, it's not a big deal. Since I figured out what Grouka was planning to do with whoever Targeter sent, I kind of assumed I'd never see it again."

Her tone might be nonchalant, but the look in her eyes told Leia that Salla was anything but dismissive about the badge.

"The story of your ex? Was that true?" Leia asked, moving away from the touchy subject.

"No," Salla said. "I knew you wouldn't follow me without a good reason. I figured Solo wouldn't question me making a bad relationship choice or two."

Han's face didn't change, but he didn't say anything to contradict her.

She continued after a slight pause. "I never picked up the badge from Grouka's coder."

"So you could still get the coordinates?" Leia asked.

Salla licked her her lips but her expression didn't change otherwise. "I could. Hypothetically."

Leia watched Salla with careful judgement, the way her long legs crossed above the knee, the way she leaned back in her chair, the hard glint in her eye, and felt an intuitive need to comfort her. Sometimes broken people whispered their pain without words, just in the lines of their mouth or the tension in their bodies. Her father had trained Leia's eye for both empathy and attack and she could now recognize the same kind of deep-seated, crumbling pain in Salla's interpersonal relationships as Han sometimes displayed.

Leia hurried to refocus Salla's attention. "What if I had shown up and been unable to steal it back? What were you going to do?"

Salla shrugged, still angry but cooling. "I was sure glad to see Slick there in the cantina. Makes my job a hell of a lot easier."

Han scowled on his stool and tapped his toe against the carpeting. "I'm no thief," he said, repeating himself from earlier in the day.

"Sure you are," Salla said. "I know Shrike taught you the basics—"

But Han interrupted: cold steel dripping with anger. "Drop. It."

Leia pretended she hadn't caught the name Salla had said so effortlessly, a name Leia herself had never heard. A name she would be researching the next spare moment she had. _Shrike,_ she tumbled it around her brain, desperate for information. Someone Han didn't want to remember or someone Han didn't want her to know about.

It was tough to tell sometimes.

Han read the room, seeing that the female half of the team was set against him. "So what I'm hearing is that we are _still_ stealing the badge to get the coordinates that I will use to fly us straight into a trap. Do I have it right?"

Leia blinked, tilted her head and said with the tiniest of smiles on her lips, "That about does it, flyboy."

* * *

By the time the final decisions had been made, the Nar Shaddaa sky had turned a menacing dark blue and then completely black. No starlight made it through the moon's polluted atmosphere when Nal Hutta passed between it and the system's sun, Y'Toub. No safety glowrods existed in the Shocks; the settlements were dark, quiet and still.

Chewie proposed they stay at the slave hovel for the night and Salla agreed, said she'd already arranged for housing for the slaves whose home they occupied. It was unsafe to return to the spaceport, she said.

"Comm Goldenrod," Han had muttered to the Wookiee. Tell him to lock the _Falcon_ down tight. No one gets near her until my code is entered in the manual door controls, got it?"

Chewie had roared his agreement and stepped out of the hovel's entranceway to place the comm call.

Once Leia, Salla and Chewie had decided to hunker down here tonight—Han had resorted to quiet, private rebellion in the safety of his own mind—he'd slapped his thighs, stood up from his stool and loudly informed the group he was going to take a shower. There was no way in hell he was spending another hour sitting in the rainwater that had doused him earlier that day and, frankly, he'd needed some space from his compatriots.

He felt like he had no idea who these people were. Leia made total sense to him, though she pissed him off. If someone had told him the circumstances of this mission a week ago, he would have predicted with total accuracy what she'd do. It was always duty first with the princess. Of course she'd agree to help Salla in the cantina; of course she'd agree to follow her to the Shocks; _of course_ she wouldn't take the warnings of everyone in the room and escape Nar Shaddaa before it killed her.

But then Chewie had betrayed him. With a low growl, Han's copilot had reminded him that this was Leia's mission, that she outranked him by any measurable means.

That stung.

And then! Oh, and then _Salla_ had jumped into the fray and now they were all about to die together. Wasn't that just great?

Forty-five minutes later, Han grimaced into the dull mirror of the slave hovel's only fresher, staring at his reflection in consternation. His eyes looked tired—a look he'd become very familiar with seeing in the mirror when working with the princess—and the line creasing his forehead looked deeper, somehow, than it had just a few hours ago.

"You're a damn fool," he muttered to the Han reflected back to him, and then exited the fresher and made his way back to the entertainment area.

The hallway passed him in seven steps, curtains covering two entryways for sleeping quarters. The short hallway was lit by only one small solar panel that Han imaged the slaves had installed themselves. The floor was cool beneath his bare feet, wooden blanks blunted by slave feet for years, it seemed. He passed a fissure in the wall, a dense pocket of cracks spider-webbing from one central point: evidence of violence in this home of desperate poverty.

Everything was doused in the uniquely awful feeling of subjugation. Heteronomy. It reminded him of Corellia, of _Trader's Luck,_ of having no recourse but to submit and bide his time until he was big enough, strong enough, to escape.

Han had escaped and he would never submit. Never again.

He emerged into the entertainment area, the sour note of his own history making him scowl, bitter and enraged. What was _with_ his self-reflection? He hadn't thought this much about his past since ….

… since _never._

 _Fucking Salla,_ he thought, stepping past the empty threshold and noting a slim figure in the low-backed chair in the corner of the room. At first Han thought it was Leia: the figure small and the room dark. He imagined what he would say, what he _could_ say, to the princess now that she had well and truly signed his death certificate.

But then he stepped into the room proper and he could see the figure better. it was Salla huddled deep into that chair. Long legs pulled up, feet perched on the arm of the chair, body turned sideways and chin resting on her knees, Salla didn't look like she was waiting for him. She looked lost in thought: eyebrows furrowed, fingers twitching.

"Uh," he said, stopping midstride. "Hey."

She lifted her eyes to his, cocked an eyebrow at his complete awkwardness. "Hey, handsome. How was your shower?"

"Too long, apparently," he quipped, still frozen near the fabric hanging over the front walkway. "Where did everyone go?"

"Back into the bedrooms," she answered. "Sleeping. Wook in one, princess in the other. You got quite the choice ahead of you there."

Han scowled. "Choice. Right."

He knew what Sal was after, could read her like a book. The woman was not subtle, not in the slightest. It was one of the things that had first attracted him to her. Sal reminded him that sometimes life was exactly what it looked like: dirty, cheap and short. Not that _she_ was cheap, not at all: Salla always seemed to rise above herself, seemed possessed of some intrinsic class. Not the same as Leia's utter high-bred confidence in the law, but still. Something.

But there wasn't a whole lot of hemming and hawing with her, either. Sex and companionship were needs, physical demands that could make someone vulnerable if not met regularly. And that blunt frankness was exactly the way he wanted to think about intimacy and relationships. An appetite, an itch.

For young Han, Salla had been a goldmine, exactly the kind of affair he'd wanted in life. Someone who let him in, day or night; someone he trusted to not take it all too seriously. He didn't want a girlfriend. He didn't want a relationship. He'd cared for Salla, sure, but hadn't _loved her._ She was a friend who fucked him and that had been just fine in Han's book.

But Han had missed something about Salla back then, a smattering of clues he hadn't picked up in their time together. Just because she _said_ she didn't want a serious thing with him didn't mean she didn't want a serious thing with him. Salla could be casual as fuck, could be hot as a rancor in a moment and walk off intensity on a whim, but she was still just as lonely, just as hungry as the rest of them.

Salla had grown up faster than he had. It had taken him years to catch on to what she'd known but hadn't said then. Sometimes you didn't just need sex. Sometimes you needed a friend, sometimes you needed a particular person.

And he'd missed that until it was too late, until he'd hurt her and left. Funny that he hadn't felt badly about it until his life had radically changed with a charter to Alderaan.

"Trouble in paradise?" Salla asked.

Han shook his head, trying to clear it. He moved back toward the stool opposite Salla's chair, swung one long leg over it and leaned up against the divider into the kitchenette.

"We're not fucking," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Leia and me, if that's what you're getting at."

Salla eyed him carefully, didn't flinch at his words. "Could have fooled me," she said. "You sure?"

He laughed, bitter and hollow. "Yeah, pretty damn sure."

He was well aware that he wasn't sleeping with Leia Organa: _well aware._ There wasn't much of a doubt about that because he was downright electrified by her. Ready to go in a heartbeat these days: chasing the fading scent of her perfume to capture in his memory for his next spell of alone time. Fantasies about the princess ran across his eyelids at night like a holofilm, worn and beloved. She could look at him a certain way and he'd have a whole host of issues to deal with. She'd done it to him in the middle of _battles,_ for fuck's sake.

No one could have ever accused Han Solo of thinking with his cock before now. God _damn,_ it hurt for it to be true at his age and with his experience. He should care less, find someone else for a spell. Get his mind off her.

But no. It was all Leia, all the time. Day and night: Leia. And he didn't know how to fix it.

"That's an awful lot of tension for two people to build up without any way to work it out," she said, smile affixed. Gloating, almost. "Would you like some help?"

Han tried a smile, felt it reach her knees and die. "You could try, Sal, but I think she's got a pretty clear preference."

He knew Salla had been propositioning _him,_ not Leia. And while Salla and he were similar in their personal sexual philosophies—safety was the only precluding factor; gender was in the eye of the beholder and both, all, neither was good, fine, fantastic as long as it was safe—he suspected Leia preferred human males. Just a feeling. And he knew Salla would respect that.

Leia could hold her own against Salla, no doubt about that. But Han wanted to keep this party focused.

"Lucky for her, we have good specimens for her choosing," Salla quipped. "I was going to stay out here tonight, but I could always see what the good princess thinks about sharing?"

He leaned his head back, looked to the ceiling, huffed a laugh. "Maybe you'd have more luck than I've had. Be my guest."

Salla's act dropped like a stone. She'd been snooping and he suddenly realized she'd gotten plenty of information from him without him even realizing it.

 _Damn it, Solo. Get yourself together._

"So you _have_ tried," Salla said, intent and serious. "And failed _,_ it seems. Interesting."

Han felt a chill run up his spine, thinking of near-misses, thinking of Leia's slight weight in his arms as they tumbled to the ground, blaster fire zipping over their heads. Thinking of her breasts pressed against his chest, slim arms around around his torso. Thinking of her lips, her hair, her voice …

"Oh, wow," Salla said, interrupting more pleasant thoughts. "Look at you. In love with a princess."

Han rolled his eyes. "Cut it out, Sal."

"No way. This may be my only chance to see you be rejected by anyone."

 _Rejected? Ha!_ "I ain't been rejected," he growled. "It's all about work."

Salla's face showed her thoughts, bright and amused. Han knew and Salla knew that Leia Organa was clearly haunting him. Han knew he was transparent. He hated it, but he knew.

"What happened to _I always get what I want?_ " Salla asked. "I remember that phrase well."

Han grimaced. He remembered saying that years ago, an outrageously egotistical statement that embarrassed him now. Not only for its blatant disregard for everyone else's wants or feelings, but because it wasn't at all how he felt about Leia.

Whatever that was.

"Maybe it's not about what I want anymore," he said, eyes lowered: mouth dry.

At first, Han didn't understand the depth of what he'd said. The words had come barrelling out from his lips, unrestrained and free. He was older now, more experienced; he knew how the galaxy worked and it wasn't always going to work in his favor. For a brash kid from the Corellian streets, Han had had a lot of gumption to think that everything would go his way if he bitched about it loud enough.

And then he realized the real reason the words had felt so honest. It wasn't about his past; it was about her future. Leia's. What she wanted.

Salla paused, her beautiful eyes studying him with a different sort of concern, like she didn't recognize his face, hadn't been up close and personal to him years ago.

And Han realized—really realized, for the first time, _ever_ —how much he'd changed since he'd joined the fight against the Empire. Since he'd met Leia.

Seconds of quiet ticked by him as he wandered, lost, through his memories. A seductive heaviness, a nocturnal truth: the pain of self-actualization.

"Han," Salla whispered.

The sound of his name pulled him back to the room, to the woman in front of him. Salla's body hadn't moved but she suddenly seemed friendlier, like the woman he'd known years ago. Her bun leaned to the left, no longer rigidly tucked at the top of her head. He noticed she'd loosened the ties on the front of her shirt and he could see the tantalizing skin of her collarbones.

And he couldn't keep his mind on the present, thrown back into the past. He remembered quiet moments with Salla, the kindness she displayed when it was just the two of them. Sex, yes, of course; it had always been good with her. Adventurous and fun, regular. All that he'd thought he needed.

But Han realized that he'd missed the larger picture, that Salla had perhaps understood their arrangement better than he had. For him, Salla was convenient and trustworthy, a shared history. Someone who understood the job the way that the people in the bars and the planetside fucks just didn't.

And was it possible— _how_ could it be possible?—that Salla had felt that way for _him_ all those years ago? While he was thinking of her as a good time, as a friend? Had he led the party, had she bent to accommodate his perceptions of their relationship?

 _Maybe it's not about what I want anymore._

 _Oh fuck,_ he thought. _Oh …. Oh, fuck._

His brain shut down, closed around itself, self-actualization done. There was nothing that prepared him for the depth of these thoughts, the utter _shame and guilt_ that cascaded through him like an avalanche. And his brain simply wouldn't comprehend it, didn't have the faculty for it. It was like trying to sew a third arm onto his body: the thought didn't fit. He was completely unequipped to deal with the kind of emotion he felt at finally understanding what his abandonment must have done to Salla.

"I'm off to bed," he said. Too loud, a little frantic. "G'night."

With quick, heavy steps Han moved to the bedrooms, lucked out when the first one he peered into contained an exhausted Wookiee, and bunkered down for the night without a shred of a thought about what his subconscious now knew.


	8. In the Way

_In the Way_

* * *

His hands were in her hair, pulling, tangling, and his weight pressed down on her like a shadow: ethereal and far too light for the spark he lit within her.

"Leia," he said, lips at her jaw, voice like gravel and heat.

Her body spasmed under him, triggered by the deep, stroking timbre of his voice. Suddenly she had arms, legs, movement, and she surged. She wrapped her arms around him, one around his upper back, one in his hair, _gripping_ his too-light body close to hers. Her breath was too loud in the space between them and so she pulled his hair and directed his mouth to hers.

Immediate heat, the roll of his tongue against her lips, against her teeth. Rough, scraping, absolutely punishing, he kissed her and she wasn't afraid. She was sizzling. Electric.

His hands left her hair, pressed into the worn wood beside her head and she realized she was on a floor, melting into it, stuck without an exit strategy but why would she need an exit strategy if he was finally kissing her like this? The tension was there, yes, but the _relief_ was stronger. How long had she waited for him to kiss her, to melt into sensation with her? _Finally._

She tried to raise a knee to wrap it around his shadow hips, bring him closer to her, but found her knee stubbornly stuck to the floor.

He lifted his hips, the slight weight gone and she immediately moved to follow him. But her hips were held flush to the wooden slats, too, as was her neck, shoulder blades and now even her elbows.

"Han," she tried to say but _oh god_ now she was falling into the floor and her mouth was left in a scream, the noise silenced, her body immobile and frozen as her heat surged, palpable desire running up and down her body like impossible torture. The want, the sheer depth of need, like the seconds before climax when all else faded but that one need, so close, so close, so …

Leia's eyes snapped open, lips parted, skin tingling, the ebb of an unrealized orgasm drifting away from her like a curse. Like a sudden drop of cabin pressure. Like her brain had missed the desperate call of her body and now she was left with unbidden electric shocks.

She sighed, sat up on the bare cot of her (very public) bedroom, and swept her hair out of her eyes. It was going to be one of those days, was it? With unnamed sexual visitors in her dreams and a lagging sense of nearly-there fulfillment?

Leia threw her legs over the side of the cot and decided to start her day, forgetting that her unnamed sexual visitor had had a name.

A very familiar name. _Han._

* * *

Early morning didn't do Nar Shaddaa any favors. Leia eyed the tired, limping light she spotted between the folds of the curtain above the threshold and sighed. No rain fell with the dawn but a wind had picked up, whipping the curtain into a frenzy in the hovel's threshold. A whistle echoed through the hallway as outside air rushed in and out, blowing dust and debris across the floor.

The sound of her awakening coalition was noticeably absent. She knew Chewie had taken the other bedroom and that Salla had planned to sleep on the living room floor. She had no idea where Han had wound up and pretended that she didn't care which bedmate he had chosen.

Leia entered the kitchenette, glanced at a sleeping Salla on the floor of the entertainment area, grabbed a ration bar and moved back through the hallway. She swept the curtain aside and stepped into the bluster of the world outside the slave hovel.

It was still early, muted light swept through the avenues and windbreaks of the buildings. Dark corners punctured the daylight where Y'Toub's rays couldn't reach. Here the precipitation clung in puddles and small ponds, and Leia wondered if perhaps the chemical makeup of the rain predisposed it to quick evaporation with direct sunlight. The ground elsewhere was dry, dusty.

What an odd, unexpected world.

Leia took a deep breath and tried to focus. Her beleaguered nerves were shot and she still felt the residual effects from her unsatisfying dream. She was in no shape to face any of the people in the slave quarters behind her. She had no explanation for these dreams when they occurred—and they occurred far too often for her comfort—and while she could sometimes find the glimmer of the truth, she often simply suppressed it in favor of moving forward with her plans.

But it took time to suppress. And she needed that time. If Han found her like this, if he _ever_ found her like this, she was not sure how she would react.

"Jai!" a young voice shouted.

Leia turned her head and spotted several beings collecting debris from the street before it could be swept into the air by the wind. Children, she noted: they were human children.

She swallowed, her mouth dry.

 _Children._

Vulnerable beings, incapable of taking care of themselves, thin and hunched, sweeping the streets of their community for who-knows-what. Skin tones in a range of color, terrifyingly young and nearing adulthood, with slow, careful steps and hasty, excited jogs. Beautiful and heart-wrenching at the same time.

 _Where are the children?_ she'd asked herself yesterday. _Here,_ the bowels of Nar Shaddaa replied, and Leia was in rare danger of blasting a hole into the first free person she saw in this neighborhood.

She took a breath and without conscious thought her feet carried her to the nearest youngling. A girl: about eight years old, blonde hair pulled back into a top knot, dusty tanned skin lovely in the lame sunlight. She was crouched low, picking up scrap metal with careful fingers as Leia approached her.

"Hello," Leia said, tempering her voice to sound harmless. It was surprisingly difficult; she'd spent most of the past few years commanding.

It seemed voices had a memory all their own.

The girl looked up, suspicious: deep, blue eyes narrowed. "Hello."

"I'm not going to hurt you," Leia said.

The girl gripped the tin and aluminum in her hands and stood to her full height. She came up to Leia's waist. Small, even by Leia's standards.

"What do you want?" she asked.

Leia opened her mouth, unsure how to speak to this little girl. She was looking at Leia with annoyance, with a look that clearly said she was being disrupted from a very important routine activity.

"Can I ask … what you're doing?" she asked, finally able to speak Basic words.

The little girl blinked, her eyes widening as she took in Leia's hair, her military-style boots, the kindness in her eyes. Skeptical, she asked, "Are you an outsider?"

"I suppose so," Leia said. "My name is Leia."

"Katya," the little girl offered. "Are you a buyer?"

Leia recoiled as if physically slapped. "No, of course not."

A buyer? To own another being? The thought made her sick.

"Then why are you here?" Katya asked. "Nobody but us and buyers here."

Leia frowned and realized she had been more distracted than she'd originally thought she had been this morning. Normally she would have had an answer for this question before it had been asked. Normally she would have anticipated the question. This had been her _job._

Damn dream was making her dangerously distracted.

Leia pressed her lips together and crouched down, sitting on her heels, trying to appear harmless. "I'm not here to hurt you."

Katya tilted her head, eyeing Leia with open curiosity. "What's that?"

Furrowing her brow, Leia just stared blankly at the little girl, confused.

"Food?" Katya clarified, pointing at Leia's hand.

Leia's eyes cut to the ration bar clenched in her fist, nearly crushed. The wrapping showed a deep fissure where Leia's fingers had gripped the bar.

Without hesitation, Leia held it out to the little blonde girl. "Take it, please," she said. "I'm not hungry."

Deep blue eyes looked completely confused by that statement but the little girl grabbed the ration bar anyway, hiding it in the folds of her shirt, hidden from view. She moved quickly, like an insect, expertly finding the pocket without a second of wasted energy.

Leia wondered why Katya didn't eat it right then and there, but reserved that question for another time.

"What are you doing with those?" she asked instead, gesturing to the scrap metal in the little girl's hand. Blunted pieces of metal alloys, light and covered in dust: hundreds of pieces of it blew across the streets of the Shocks in the wind.

"Momma said to."

"Do you take it back to your mother? Does she sell it?" Leia asked, thinking of an underground market in the slave community, a clandestine place to make trades, perhaps a bartering economy.

It seemed reasonable; she'd seen many such black markets on her humanitarian relief tours while in the senate. A revolution all their own in a society that believed some beings did not deserve to have or sell anything, that ownership was a gift for the wealthy.

Luke had spoken of the illegal underground marketplaces of Tatooine, places he had not been allowed to visit but which had piqued his curiosity as a young boy. _The slaves made things,_ he'd once told her, deep in the night on a mission to Callos. _Beautiful things. Trinkets and jewelry and things you could only find there in Mos Espa._

Individualism, she'd always thought. The deep desire to make an impact in the galaxy, no matter how small.

She had been ashamed to realize her first thought had been to recruit such industrious beings into the Alliance. Surely they would want to work for the light side, surely they'd want to help the rebel cause? A win-win situation.

She'd almost put in a request to High Command to visit Tatooine in the hopes of instigating a slave rebellion.

It had been her father's voice in her head that had stopped her.

 _Sentient beings deserve freedom, even the freedom to disagree with you and_ not _join your particular political uprising,_ Bail had told her. _Stop your thrusters right there, Leia, and get to work freeing everyone._

But Katya looked confused. "Sell it?"

"Does your mother get something for the metal? Food?"

The little girl shook her head, expression still mystified. "I put it over there."

She pointed to a large, red bin, over six meters tall, down the street from the slave hovel in which Leia had slept the night before. It was only visible because of its garish color and the weather barrier that overlay it, shimmering in the early-morning sunlight.

"A trash compactor?" Leia asked, frowning. "Why do you put it there?"

The little girl shrugged. "Momma says we have to do it or no one will."

Leia suddenly understood, her brain catching up to the little girl's so quickly it hit her with a _thump._ This was the sum total of the slave community's ability to keep their settlement clean and safe. After the nights, when the Shocks were dark and silent, the slave children were sent out to collect the refuse of the night and dispose of it safely.

 _Community._

This wasn't an underground scrap metal market. This wasn't about individualism or ownership. This was a crude, basic tenet of civilization on a world in which the free sectors didn't have any: garbage collecting. Citizenship. Helping one's neighbor.

Leia's heart squeezed and she shut her eyes.

Katya continued, oblivious to Leia's emotional reaction. She pointed to an older boy across the street, pale, with long limbs and a slight limp. "Jai and I race."

"Is Jai your brother?"

The little girl nodded. "He's faster but I'll beat him when I grow."

Leia smiled, her heart in shambles, the evidence of basic goodness in the face of personal devastation so achingly present that it stole her breath. She could only nod, wordless.

 _This_ was why she needed to bring the heaters back to the Alliance. _This._ She had to succeed to free the people who found spare energy to foster community in direct opposition to the evil beings who owned them. Her life was a small price to pay for their freedom: Han's life, Chewie's, Salla's.

Was she insane, as Han had accused her of last night? Yes. But she would rather be crazy and get the job done than sane and unmoved by the common decency of these people. If her conscience was clear when the Imperial blaster bolt came, she would die a happy woman.

"Pearl," a deep voice said behind her.

 _Han._ He'd found her.

Every breathy, whimpered plea from her dream came to her in one fell swoop, rushing and bounding like whitewater rapids through her stomach. Embarrassment burned her cheeks and she had to remind herself that Han had no knowledge of what she had dreamt. Of her desperate need for his hands, his lips, his admiration and pride and adoration—

 _Stop it,_ she ordered herself. _He speaks once and all your big talk of sacrifice and freedom crumbles to dust? Get a grip, Organa._

Leia cleared her throat, stood, nodded a quick thanks to Katya, and walked back to the hovel. Han was posted outside the threshold like a sentry, stiff and unyielding, his shirt open and the remnants of a dense panic in his eyes.

"The hell were you doing?" he asked her, low, under his breath. "Wandering around out there? You could've been killed."

He was breathing hard, sculpted muscles expanding and contracting with every inhale. Leia's eyes fell without her permission, the unobstructed view of previously hidden skin, hair, muscle and pure Solo physiology warring with her better nature. She wondered how that hair felt against her fingertips, wondered what that skin tasted like, wondered—briefly—what he would do if she just pressed her lips to the indent of his collarbone, ran her tongue over that patch of skin stretched so deliciously over his Adam's apple.

 _Focus._

She turned her head to look at the children again, eyeing their collections, their small bodies crouched in the dirt, playing games with each other as they picked up debris. Katya had moved to her brother, was helping him step over a pile of duracrete that had fallen from the residence that rose high above them into the green clouds and weak sunlight.

"I don't know," she answered Han.

His eyes were cautious, calculating, questioning. "Want some breakfast?" he said, obviously trying to steer her back inside where it was safe.

She had a quick, buzzing thought that, for Han, her conversation with the slave child _was_ dangerous. The more she shored up her own defenses, her own resolve to do what needed to be done here on Nar Shaddaa, the harder she'd fight him should he decide to oppose her.

He didn't stand a chance.

"I'm not hungry," she said, re-entering the hovel and sweeping the curtain behind her as she went.

* * *

Two hours later Han pulled their stolen speeder out of the Shocks and into the mid-level docking bay of a patchy, rundown hotel on the far end of Grouka's district. The area was certainly less busy than the street outside _The Golden Hand_ had been but by no means quiet. Leia spotted two Ishi Tib males walking hand-in-hand down the far side of the street and a quartet of loud, rambunctious teenaged humans throwing balls of flimsies at each other by the ground-level entrance of the hotel.

Otherwise, the block was still and quiet as the speeder's hoverlifts settled onto the sixth story platform.

"We're here," Han announced to his passengers. "Wherever _here_ is."

Leia hopped out of the speeder first and walked to the lip of the platform protecting her from falling to her death on the streets below. "You're sure he's there?"

She turned to look at Salla, climbing out of the speeder with Han and Chewie. "I'm about seventy percent sure. This was the last place I met him."

"Damn well better be more than seventy percent sure," Han grumbled, hefting Chewie's pack of surveillance equipment over his right shoulder. "You want one here on the platform, pal?"

Chewie rumbled. _Three here, Cub. If the coder is living across the street, we'll need eyes on three different angles of the window._

He said more but Leia couldn't translate it; technical jargon wasn't her specialty, even in Basic. She wouldn't have understood him if the Wookiee had suddenly articulated his directions in perfect, Threepio-esque High Alderaanian. But she listened, trying to pick up discernible fragments.

… _cornerstone … angle is ideal … shifting wind patterns …_

"You wanna help me actually do this shit or are you just gonna tell me what you want?" Han griped, bent over the lip of the platform.

Leia eyed him, his flared annoyance, the way his teeth were gritted and eyes narrowed as he lumbered off the ledge and hoisted the pack over to the corner Chewie had mentioned. Han set it down, threw a sarcastic salute to his first mate and dropped to a knee to install a cam.

"This whole thing … bullshit … can't trust a goddamned …"

She didn't catch the rest and frankly didn't want to. It wasn't unusual for Han to fall into mulishness when he'd been outvoted or ordered to do something with which he disagreed. She'd witnessed it several times during their acquaintance, always in times of stress and always loud enough for her to hear.

But the stiff line of his spine, the tension in his shoulders, the bitter almost-sneer to his lips … that wasn't Han. His stubborn pride notwithstanding, his normal default setting was amused teasing. Enduring sarcasm. In times of crisis or emotional turbulence he'd revert back to snide anger, but there wasn't a being she'd ever met in battle that didn't resort to some sort of kill-or-be-killed mentality when the situation turned dire.

Survival instincts were amazing, complex things. Han had done an awful lot of surviving.

He seemed jumpy, though, afraid. Trigger-happy. Like his nerves had already caught fire and he was dead-set on discovering who the arsonist was. If she didn't know better, she would think that Han had been the one with an unsatisfactory dream and an empathetic crisis this morning.

It worried Leia. But she didn't have a reason to pry and with Salla in the group, she knew Han wouldn't talk about it. At some point Leia would try to separate them, give Han a chance to breathe without the pressure of his ex-lover's presence.

For whatever it was worth, he was most agreeable when the two of them were alone.

"The room is ready?" Leia asked Salla.

Salla looked like the most well-rested member of their group by far, which made little sense. Leia had seen her asleep on the floor this morning. She understood that in smuggling, appearances were important, that being impenetrable and strong was part of the act of finalizing deals. A distressed smuggler was not a rich smuggler.

But as Leia eyed Salla, she became more and more aware of how important the facade was. Salla's hair was free today, shifting in the wind, curling into a dense cloud around her head. She wore a flight suit, dark blue and form-fitting, zipped to her neck and clinging to her like a second skin, blending into her natural skin tone with a sensuality that Leia herself could never have pulled off. A belt sat at her hips and Leia could spot a deadly-looking vibroknife and an electrical charge clipped to it. Nothing in her presence was sexual: everything was hard utility. And yet she oozed stealth and finesse and seduction in a way that didn't seem conscious at all.

Perhaps being a female smuggler had forged Salla's sexuality into a kind of weapon, a different kind of vibroknife. Leia would have to consider that a bit later.

"Room is ready," Salla confirmed, turning to address Leia. "I have the codes. We can get set up once the dynamic duo is done out here."

They turned to watch Han and Chewie mount three cams at different angles, lugging a sack of equipment behind them like a slab of prized nerf steaks. Their low grumbles echoed back to the women, harsh and at some points derogatory. Leia winced to hear Han call Chewie a _moron mop-head without a lick of sense._

"Don't worry," Salla said, apparently catching Leia's reaction. "Those two will insult each other into the great beyond. It's apparently a sign of brotherly love or something."

Leia stiffened, unsure if she was offended that Salla thought Leia wouldn't already know this, or uncomfortable that she'd been caught expressing a personal thought.

"Yes," she said, and left it there, unsure what else to say.

"It's funny, though," Salla replied regardless of Leia's curtness. "Solo seems a little angrier than usual this morning, hmm?"

"Oh?" Leia said, mindful of Han's deep desire for privacy.

Salla turned to her, shoulders square and feet planted. Leia had to lift her chin to look the smuggler in the eye.

"You haven't noticed?" Salla asked.

Salla's eyes shifted from Han and Chewie and back down to Leia, and Leia swallowed the urge to reply that _yes,_ of course she had noticed. Jealousy was an odd companion and one she was still fighting. Salla had logical reason to doubt that Leia knew Han as she did.

 _She's slept with him. He nearly married her. She doesn't dream of his lips, or his hips, or the way he looks in the throes of passion._

 _She already knows._

Why would she think you know anything at all about him?

Leia brought her hands to the dip of her abdomen, interlaced her fingers, struggling to compose herself. This was a useless line of thought and would do nothing to keep them alive or help the Alliance.

"I would have thought …?" Salla trailed off.

Leia's brain tumbled into working order with sudden, brutal efficiency. She had a choice here: confirm to her Alliance-approved intermediary that Han Solo was acting strangely. This was something she'd normally tell _any_ member of a team if a teammate seemed odd. It was standard protocol: if one was going into battle with someone at her back, one should disclose all shifts in mental or physical state.

The Alliance would question why Leia _didn't_ confirm Salla's observation.

But Leia tasted disloyalty at the idea of talking about Han in any respect, not just to Salla but to anyone except maybe Chewie. And if Chewie hadn't said anything yet, Leia sure as hell wouldn't do it. Han's mind was his own; if she respected him enough to trust him on this mission, she should respect his right to privacy.

"I haven't noticed anything," Leia replied, smoothly and without hesitation. "Perhaps he didn't sleep well last night."

Salla arched a brow but didn't disagree. "Sure. Or he's pissed at me for what I said yesterday."

Leia's brain exploded, a veritable mass of thoughts that zinged around her head like blaster bolts in a magnetically-sealed bulkhead. Her entire perception of the platform, the forms of Han and Chewie arguing by the ledge, the formidable figure of Salla right beside her, all turned sharp, razor-edged sharp, like the world had suddenly become so much clearer.

 _Said to him._

But Salla continued, heedless of the state into which she'd thrown Leia. "I hope you know I was kidding."

Leia blinked. "Kidding?"

And there was that damn authenticity again, radiating from Salla like a corona or a soundwave. But for this confidence in Salla's veracity, it would be so easy for Leia to let her jealousy color the way she regarded the other woman.

Salla's history with Han was no reason to treat her any differently than any other member of this group.

"Yeah," Salla said, shrugging. "I made a joke about sleeping with you last night and he seemed … well. He didn't react well."

Leia wanted to maintain her royal composure but failed as she laughed, the image of Han's outraged expression coming to mind. "I'm sure he didn't," she said. "He's not keen on me knowing much about him. He'd probably assume I was after his deep, dark secrets."

Salla smiled. "He does like a mystery."

Han and Chewie moved to the third corner of the platform, crouched and loudly debating the merits of adhesive binds to keep the cams in place. Leia watched them work, sensing that Salla had something else to say. Tension rippled in the area around her, unease sitting in her shoulders like a weight.

"I hope you know that I'm good with boundaries," Salla finally said. "I'm a smuggler, sure, but I'm not scum. I won't get in the way."

Natural political instinct—and hard-won training from Bail Organa—kept Leia's mouth from opening in an _O_ of surprise. "Of course not," she said, measured and clear. "I trust you."

But inside Leia's mind ruptured, debris everywhere. Wreckage and chaos scattered across neurons, resembling a battlefield. Smoke between fragments but all of it, _all of it,_ without direction, without clarity: emotions as visceral as combustible shells. Was this anger? Jealousy?

 _Get in the way?_

Of the mission? Was Salla telling Leia that she wouldn't let any renewed relationship with Han get in the way of their work here?

Or was it the complete opposite, that Salla would not get in the way of any burgeoning relationship between Han and Leia?

Leia was utterly lost, unaccustomed to the depth of her ineptitude in discussing such things. Salla's tone was even and honest; to question her now would be to acknowledge that Leia was not able to discern for herself the intentions of the woman in front of her and that was ridiculous. She was one of the most talented negotiators in the galaxy! If she could stare down Darth Vader and lie about the Death Star plans, she could damn well unravel one smuggler.

 _I trust you,_ she'd said, and she meant it. She trusted Salla. She trusted Han. Anything else was her own emotional failings projected onto them.

 _I won't get in the way._

And then the smuggler walked away from Leia, reached into the backseat of the speeder and hauled out a small bag with a grunt.

"Let's get settled in the room," Salla shouted behind her as she moved to the hotel entrance. "We might have to wait him out a bit."

* * *

 _Author's Note: I will NOT be posting chapter nine next "Friday". As some of you know, I went on vacation last week and had no proper writing time (seriously, what is a vacation without a writing day or two?). I have really enjoyed being two or three weeks ahead of you on this story so that I can return to the chapter before posting and have some distance from it. Since I am only one week ahead of you now, I have been feeling anxious as all hell, and I know no one wants an author to feel anxiety about a regularly-updated multichapter fic!_

 _So the next chapter will be posted the following week, Thursday, May 10th. Thank you for your patience! I know you will happily indulge in the mass of new fic others will post in the meantime and come back to see what Han, Leia, Chewie and Salla are up to._

 _See you on May 10th!_


	9. Cause and Effect

_Cause and Effect_

* * *

If Han had had any expectations for the situation looking better in the morning than it had last night, they had been soundly dashed by sunrise. Dark feelings surrounded him with the light of Y'Toub's rising: he hadn't slept well and what sleep he _had_ gotten was pitched with anger and self-recrimination. The unsettling realization that he had truly hurt Salla when he'd left still hung over him like a cloud, grasping at the edge of his thoughts like those old ghost stories Shrike had told him when he was a kid.

The problem wasn't that he'd hurt her. Life was pain. You were born, you suffered, you died. That was it. Pretending there was anything more to life was useless in the end. He'd seen kids die in the streets; he'd seen good people lose everything. Hope was an ugly word when there was nothing good to hope _for._ Bottle that shit up quick because if you don't, you were dead that much sooner.

No, the problem wasn't that he'd hurt Salla. The problem was that _he hadn't cared that he'd hurt her._ He hadn't thought twice about it. He'd never considered the ramifications of his midnight escape: he'd left. She'd never contacted him. They'd moved on.

But now … _well._ Now he'd seen it. He'd been confronted with the evidence of Salla's eyes, the old, tired pain surrounded by scar tissue. The depth of her decency. She'd risked her life to help them, to save them from certain death at the hands of Grouka.

Salla was all sorts of rough when it came to her business but she wasn't cruel. And it was starting to occur to him that he might deserve her cruelty for what he'd done to her. He couldn't ignore her kindness in the face of his betrayal: the consequences of his actions. Something had changed.

And he knew _exactly_ who had done it.

That was a truth that Han was not ready to comprehend. He had space to regret the way he'd treated Salla but there was no room for questions of morality. He _definitely_ didn't have space to contemplate changing his ways. Because here, _now_ , was Leia in the picture: the very definition of hope. Someone he respected despite—and secretly _because of_ —her unfailing goodness; someone he considered a friend. And the thought of treating Leia the way he'd treated Salla made him sick.

 _You complete shit,_ he thought to himself. _It should have made you sick to do that to Salla, too._

He knew his heart wasn't truly a living thing, hadn't been for a long time. What sat in his chest was a repressed, cold thing that he was only now realizing had the capacity to hurt someone else. The phantom beats he'd felt when Leia smiled at him were not proof of his ability to take responsibility for his actions: that was … a different thing entirely.

And even if he _did_ take responsibility, if he apologized to Salla for treating her like her feelings meant nothing? Even if he did all that, what then? Nothing he could do or say would make her feel any better.

 _People get hurt,_ he reminded himself. _People who open their hearts to other people are bound for heartbreak. Nuthin' for it._

"Do you see anything from the cams on the landing pad, Chewie?" he heard, and his brain snapped back into reality, shoving all introspection into the wild abyss of his subconscious where it couldn't hurt him.

A hotel room: dusty, dirty and tiny _,_ full to the brim with three adult humans and a Wookiee. A mission that had gone completely off the rails. A coder in possession of a guild badge that was encoded with coordinates for Leia's payload. A clusterfuck, well and true.

Han blinked at the ceiling, hearing his own thoughts, and winced. _People who open their hearts are bound for heartbreak_. He pictured Leia crouched near a little slave girl, heart ripped wide open and pouring into the street in front of her. Pictured the countless times he'd witnessed the same brash goodness in Luke, in Chewie.

Was that why his conscience suddenly had a voice? Because of _Leia?_

He blew out his breath and tried to focus, pushing against his deeper thoughts with every ounce of strength he had.

Their prey was ensconced in a one-bedroom flat directly across the hoverlane from their hotel room. Salla had managed a decent vantage point into the coder's flat, thanks in no small part to a loan from the Treasury of Rebel Fools and Idealists. Perched high above the littered street, the flat had one window, curtained and shut tight. They couldn't see the flat's door; Han supposed it opened into a central hallway that fed into many such identical flats. The building, like the rest of Nar Shaddaa, was covered in dust and grime.

He turned his head to regard the rest of the team.

Chewie had created a makeshift security suite in the far corner of the room on a rickety card table with uneven legs. Han could clearly see three cam readouts and a small receptor the big lug must have thrown onto the coder's window when Han hadn't been looking: a soft hum emanated from his corner, tell-tale static from an ill-fixed receptor.

Salla leaned against the wall nearest the holoport, wallpaper peeling around her head like a halo, one long leg crossed over the other and hands shoved into the pockets of her flight suit. Leia sat in the room's only chair next to the window, elbows on the sill and eyes focused on the coder's flat.

And Han was sprawled on the one bed in the room: a beaten, dusty queen-sized mattress with sheets of dubious cleanliness.

 _No,_ Chewie growled. _There is no suspicious activity on the street or in the skies near us._

Leia sighed but Han sneered, feeling the biting edge of anger lace his smile, his guilt bubbling loudly from its cage.

"Of course you don't," he said. "The guy's a coder. He's not gonna be up for another hour or two."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Leia turn a frustrated look on him, her beautiful eyes expectant. "Why do you say that?"

Han slipped his hands behind his head and crossed his ankles. "Every coder I know is a night-raver. Stays up late; sleeps in late. We're not all working on princess time, Pearl."

He heard her exhale, her frustration readily apparent to him as he wielded her code name like a weapon. Blindly fumbling for the grip to his anger, Han found himself struggling for any sort of rhyme or reason for his rage. And Leia seemed a tight target, the cause of all this chaos. Someone was going to bear the brunt of this self-loathing and it sure as hell wasn't going to be him.

Han wiped a hand over his face. _Because it's Leia's fault you're an asshole, Solo?_

He suddenly knew he shouldn't be within a hundred meters of this woman in his current state: vengeful and angry with himself as he was. She was dangerous. She was the reason for all this introspection, all the terrible feelings. All the guilt and shame of how he'd treated Salla. All the doubts about himself, the ones he'd never let anyone see.

And he hated— _hated_ —that it all stemmed from her. If it had just been him and Chewie on this mission, he would have tossed a salute to Salla in the cantina and high-tailed it out of there. All this trouble for what? A few hundred heaters? For the Alliance's super-duper secret base that might buy them another year? Two?

Annoyance. Needling, nettling annoyance, flushing his body from head to toe, focused solely on the last princess of Alderaan. Narrowed into a beam, tight and magnified the more he thought about _thinking_ and _feeling_ and _hurting_ and _loving._ It wasn't her fault that he'd fucked Salla over, but it sure as hell was her fault that he felt badly about it.

"Salla, have you been inside the coder's flat?" Leia asked.

Salla nodded. "Once or twice. Grouka uses him a lot."

Leia turned from the windowsill, beautiful eyes intent on Salla. _Uh, oh,_ Han thought. _She's in problem-solving mode._

"How much security does he have?" she asked. "Could we get in and out of the flat without him knowing?"

Salla looked like she was at complete ease, shoulders relaxed and eyes glittering in good humor. Han noted the easy way she lounged against the wall, as if she owned the place.

Han would give his left foot to feel comfort like that right now.

"He's got the normal stuff. He had a disturbance net built into his window and doorway, though, so we're not getting in the easy way."

Well, _hell._ Breaking and entering had never appealed to Han much. He didn't mind taking from Imperialist assholes when they deserved it, but Han never felt the need to go out of his way to smash a window and take someone's personal property. _Cowardly,_ he thought. _Like Shrike._

He'd take a head-on fight over this sneaking around any day.

Leia tapped her index finger on her knee. "Disturbance net?"

Han answered but didn't bother to sit up, his voice wafting up from his position on the bed. "It's a product of some pretty hardcore splicing. You trip the net and the coder's equipment gets deactivated."

"By deactivated, you mean—"

"—every file stored in his databanks goes up in flames, including your precious code. I've seen it happen. You don't wanna trip that net."

He'd watched Lando trip a disturbance net once on Caata Blanca. The ensuing fire had consumed records of a bank transfer that meant Lando was suddenly fifty thousand credits poorer than he had been at the start of their adventure. And while Han and Lando didn't see eye-to-eye on everything, the experience had left Han with a hefty respect for disturbance nets.

He idly wondered what scheme Lando had cooked up while Han and Chewie had been hauling freight for the Alliance.

Leia pursed her lips, looked down at the floor. Han watched her eyes shift side-to-side, as if she was reading the threadbare carpeting for clues. Planning. Calculating. Wading through the endless depths of her incredible mind for a sliver of an idea.

His breath caught and his heart—the cold, dead thing in his chest—thumped against his ribcage like a drum. Deep and thunderous, unavoidable. _Stop it!_ he commanded himself. _This is_ her _fault. You wouldn't be here if it wasn't for her._

But his heart thumped again, clear and loud. _Exactly,_ it said. _Exactly._

Han scrambled to tighten the lid on his thoughts.

"Can you bring up a holo of him?" he asked, and his voice sounded too loud in the quiet room. "Maybe we could catch him on the street?"

Salla snorted, disparaging humor readily apparent. "If _you_ were the only coder working for Grouka the Hutt, would you let a public holo exist on the holonet?"

"No," Leia murmured, settling back to watch the coder's flat through the window again.

And that was it; they had no other recourse. They needed the badge to get the heaters. Salla had last seen the badge in the coder's flat. They couldn't get into the coder's flat through the door or window. They couldn't use Han, Leia or Chewie to find him on the street because they didn't know what he looked like. And they couldn't send Salla to him because he knew Salla …

"Does he like males or females?" Leia asked quietly.

Han's heart went cold.

"Females, I think," Salla answered. "I mean, he asked me to stay the night with him the last time I was there, so at the very least he isn't against females. Why?"

But Han knew where Leia was going with this. "No."

"I'd just be the first to go in," Leia said, standing and turning toward the bed where Han lay. "I'll go in, stun him and then signal you. We get the badge, the disturbance net isn't triggered, and we're out of here in a few hours."

Han wanted to yell. He wanted to erupt, his anger flying everywhere, venting fire and rage into the air like a volcano on Mustafar. He was worn raw by all this internal conflict, consequences of his actions and his own goddamned moral compass…. And now Leia decided to open the rift further, to expose herself to danger, do her damndest to get herself killed on this planet, whether by slave child or coder or Grouka's men or the Imperial Moff …

"You'd go in there alone?" Salla asked, skeptical.

"I can handle myself," Leia answered, though none of her usual stubbornness was present in her tone. Only chill and certainty. "For ten minutes, yes. I can handle it."

"What would you even …?" he shook his head and huffed a laugh. " _Leia._ How would you get inside? Debate him on the merits of the tax code? C'mon."

Leia's eyes flashed, but her voice was arctic. The dichotomy was striking. "I know it's difficult for you to imagine, Captain, but I _do_ know how to play a part. I have the anatomy and he doesn't know me. That eliminates the rest of you. I'm your only hope."

 _Cub,_ Chewie growled.

"Oh, alright. _You have the anatomy_ ," he repeated, jumping to his feet. "What good is the anatomy if you don't know how to use it?"

 _Cub!_ Chewie roared, louder. _Stop._

But Han was done. He had struggled all night with his own demons and he was exhausted. He was tired of Leia charging into where she didn't belong, stomping her foot and demanding everyone cater to her best impulses. Be honorable. Join the Alliance. Save the galaxy.

 _Bullshit._

Leia didn't miss a beat. She breached the four steps to him like plasma through atmosphere: quick, decisive and without hesitation. She only came up to his breastbone, but her presence was so much larger than her physical stature. Han had to take a quick breath when she stood toe-to-toe with him, her eyes furious and her lips collapsed into one angry line. No one else existed in the hotel room any longer. It was just him and her. And Han was terrified into silence.

"Just because I am careful about how I use my anatomy doesn't mean I don't know how to use it," she breathed.

He opened his mouth to respond but no words came to mind and in the silence, Leia spun on her heel and lunged to the hotel door, open despite no one standing near it. Before Han could comprehend _how the fucking door had opened,_ Leia was through it, boots loud in the hallway, and the door slammed shut by itself, rumbling on its old hinges.


	10. His One

_His One_

* * *

Leia stormed out of the hotel room, fury running through her blood like poison. Her footsteps were loud on the hardwood floor of the hallway, bouncing from one wall to the other, back and forth, until the echo was sent so far away that she couldn't hear it anymore.

Rage, hot like hatred but so much more personal. Humiliation. Embarrassment. Her heart thrummed with the words she should have said, the lingering taste of molten disappointment on her tongue.

 _Go,_ her heart had told her, and so she'd left: the memory of his frantic eyes held deep in her chest for a time when she had more space to consider it. _Leave. Get distance._

The hallway stretched eternally ahead of her, floor and walls and hurt flying beneath her quickened steps. She needed space. She needed clarity. The tone, the feel of the room behind her was so much more oppressive than the ugliness outside.

 _Go._

She blinked and now she was outside: the air dank, the sky overcast. She stopped her trek and turned, surprised to find herself outside the hotel and on the street, nearly a block away from the hallway she had passed in such a fiftul torrent.

 _How did I—?_

But the poison was still there, sizzling and electric, and so she turned and kept walking down the littered street, past the begging poor and the enslaved beings peddling their bodies for a meal. Away from the infuriating smuggler who drew her near to him and then stabbed her, over and over again, a rhythm, a pattern. Hostile words and begging eyes and _why does he say things like that?_

She clenched her fists, shook her head, huffed. She was a tornado born of Han Solo's utter and complete failure to act like a decent, civilized human being when she most needed him to be.

And this planet! Filthy, wretched: scum and degradation. Hiding its children in a _slave community_ surrounded by shock wands, where they only recognized people as property or those rich enough to afford property. Where the hovels didn't have doors and one hundred credits and a rhyscate would be payment enough to give up a home for a night to wanted criminals.

And her subconscious, with all its repressed desire for unnamed shadow visitors. Who made her dissolve into wooden floors and made her feel safe despite the very real danger of losing herself entirely.

And six words from Salla on a loop: _I won't get in the way._

 _I won't get in the way._

 _I won't get in the way._

And why would Han say such things to her? _Why?_ What had she done to him to deserve the ridicule and the embarrassment? Why did he propagate a popular opinion that bit her to the quick? That she was frigid—intellectual, political, educated—and therefore undesirable? When he knew differently, when he _knew_ she was human and fallible and hung onto her composure by a thread on the bad days? He _knew._ He'd seen it. He'd held her and spoken to her in soft, low tones. He'd comforted her. And then he said … he said ...?

 _What good is the anatomy if you don't know how to use it?_

Not only was that insultingly wrong; it wasn't really how he felt! She didn't know how deep his emotions ran but at the very least she knew he wanted her, in his own peculiar, brash way. Out of anything she could name about Han Solo, that was an unassailable truth: he wanted her. He'd made that loud and clear. Given the opportunity he would gladly lure her into his bunk and that was dangerous for her on a whole different level.

So why? _Why?_ What could possibly have made him so desperate to hurt her that he'd questioned the _one thing she felt sure he felt?_

 _What good is the anatomy …?_

Plenty good, thank you very much. Good enough to make him want her. Good enough to not care whether he wanted her or not. Good enough in her own estimation, and that was all that mattered, after all. Good enough to get the job done.

… _if you don't know how to use it?_

She blew out her breath and quickened her stride.

Leia wanted out. She wanted to leave. She wanted a moment of reprieve from anything and everything. She wanted to be Pearl again, young and golden, with hair adorned with heritage pins from both the Antilles and Organa Houses. Not this Pearl of humiliation and exploitation. Innocent, pure Pearl, without a care in the galaxy. _Darling Pearl,_ her father had said. _Worth so much and found with such joy._

That was what she wanted. To be Pearl.

It was a nickname, a vestige from Bail and Breha's courtship, a sweet-nothing thought between them: the name of their future daughter and Alderaan's heir presumptive. Over the course of ten years of marriage and many failures to carry to term, Breha had been too heartbroken to try again. The trauma of losing children had devastating consequences, as it often did. The name had rattled in its nest but never been realized. Pearl: the natural princess they would never know.

So it was with complete joy that they gave the name to Leia as a sign of her importance in their lives. Pearl didn't exist and Bail was adamant that Leia keep her given name as a sign of respect to her birth-mother, whoever she had been. So in the privacy of their family, Leia was called Pearl, the realization of a decade of heartbreak. In their hearts she was Pearl. In their home, in their minds, in every dream and nightmare, she was Pearl.

It was the last word Bail Organa had ever said to his daughter. _Have heart and be strong, dear Pearl._

After the destruction, when memory ruled over her like the the gravity of Havartee, Leia had embraced every opportunity to be associated with the name her parents had given her. When asked to supply a codename she hadn't hesitated.

Pearl would keep her head clear. Pearl would have patience, would exercise restraint in the face of terror. Pearl would get the job done.

Whether Han liked it or not.

A large hand descended on her shoulder and the world exploded into color. Sudden sensory detail rushed in: light and noise and touch that had disappeared under the weight of her internal struggle. She was outside, she was unarmed, and she was alone.

Leia's combat instincts kicked into gear. She pivoted into the being who held her, ducking her head and cupping her left hand with her right. Then she threw her left elbow into the being's side with the combined strength of both her arms. _Hard._

The creature roared, dropped his hand, and Leia shimmied out of his hold. She turned toward him and took three steps back, out of arm's reach and ready to inflict further damage if her assailant moved toward her again.

First she noted his size. Then his coloring. Then the thick hair that covered his entire body, giant feet to head. And finally she caught a flash of his eyes, brilliant blue and incriminating as he held his stomach and grumbled in pain.

Guilt swept through her.

"Chewie!" she said. "Oh, Chewie. Are you alright?"

 _I will survive,_ he breathed through his growls. _I will survive if you do not try to kill me again, Little Princess._

She winced and eyed him as he breathed and stood to his full height. "I'm sorry. If I'd known it was you—"

 _I would not have touched you if you had responded when I called your name,_ he interrupted.

Leia frowned and stepped closer to him, reached a hand for his forearm. "You didn't call me."

Chewie shook his head. _I did. You did not appear to hear me._

She let that thought sink in, humbling and embarrassing. Had she been so consumed with emotion, with anger and sadness, that she had allowed herself to become unobservant? On a dangerous world like Nar Shaddaa? While on a mission?

 _Fuck you, Han Solo,_ she thought, testing the phrase. She decided that in this one rare case and in the privacy of her mind it was appropriate. _Fuck you._

"I'm sorry," she repeated out loud, drowning out the ugliness of her mind. "Are you alright?"

The Wookiee huffed a laugh, strained but amused. _Cub will be happy to know that your elbow was an effective kidnapping deterrent._

Leia was comfortably sure that she'd picked up the tenor of his growls, though she didn't think _kidnapping deterrent_ was quite the phrase Han would have used were he the one translating the Shyriiwook.

Han again. She rolled her eyes at herself.

The poison slithered through her veins and her heart squeezed to think the name, anger hidden just beneath her skin.

"I'm sure he would," she muttered.

She knew her anger was a little too broadly placed on Han's shoulders. She knew that. But it didn't at all ease the red flame of her hurt. _Don't know how to use my anatomy?_ She raged at that, not because it hurt for him to acknowledge that out of the two women present in the hotel room with him, one clearly had an advantage in seduction over the other. And it wasn't because Leia felt any sort of self-consciousness about her own ability to perform the task at hand: she _knew_ how to walk, she knew how to play. There was a good chance that she could adequately gain entrance to the coder's flat without harm coming to her.

It was his laughter that made her so angry. Angry … and before that: hurt. A reoccurring cycle, one always preceding the other. Hurt and then anger when it came to that man. Hurt, anger, forgiveness, friendship and then hurt again and Leia was _tired of it._

 _Let's get a drink,_ Chewie suggested _We need to talk._

She looked up at him, considered his friendly eyes, and realized that she couldn't hold in her hurt any longer. It was consuming her and making her a liability on this mission. If Chewie was able to find her, if she could block out his calls on a wide-open street, someone else could, too. It was becoming a problem and she'd be damned if it was _Han Solo_ who got her captured and killed. She'd happily die for the Alliance but not because of him.

Her death would be on her terms. She refused to allow any other possibility.

"Okay," she said. "Let's get a drink."

* * *

Leia noticed that Chewie brought them closer to the hotel when he chose a cantina called _The Rough Shod._ So close, in fact, that it was the same haggard building as the one in which the coder lived, five stories above their heads. _Staking out the entrances and exits,_ she noted.

Chewie really was the most capable of any of them in the group.

She was also amused at the name of the cantina, the irony of it, the complete openness with which Nar Shaddaa took advantage of its people. _We will overcharge you, of course,_ it seemed to say, _but at least you know about it going in._

That's about as honest a deal as you could get around here.

 _The Rough Shod_ was a seedy place, full of blank-eyed people and dim, barely-there lighting, but at the very least the manager kept the floor clear of the incessant puddling water that characterized every other place she'd been on this mission so far. The air-filter must have been recently renovated; Leia could smell no cigarillo smoke though she could see other patrons blow white clouds into the air. The waiter was underfed and overworked, shirtless and sweating, and he took their order quickly with a quick jog back to the bartender.

 _A slave from The Shocks,_ Chewie rumbled once the waiter turned and left. _Did you see the scar on his neck?_

Leia sucked in a breath and shook her head.

 _I hope we are not here long enough for you to learn to notice it,_ he growled.

She dropped her eyes and worked to piece together his growls. When she understood, she looked up. "I need to help them," she said. "I should learn how to notice it."

Chewie eyed her for a moment and then nodded. _Perhaps you should._

They settled into a calm quiet, each watching patrons interact with the slave. Watched the bartender yell at his regulars, watched desperate beings attempt to drink their troubles away.

So much hurt. So much pain.

"Why don't these people join us?" she said under her breath. "Why don't they fight alongside us, for their freedom? For what's right?"

Chewie paused and then growled so low that Leia felt it in her chest. _Rebelling is an option for the rich._

"The rich?" she snapped. "Do we look rich to you?"

She was here to buy—no, now it was _steal_ —four hundred enviro-stabilizers that would help make a roundly uninhabitable planet habitable for a long-term base. They'd been reduced to ration bars for the past three months. She knew for a fact that the crew of the _Millennium Falcon_ was performing their own repairs on the freighter because the Alliance did not have funds to purchase parts for the old YT-1300. She could not imagine a scenario in which the Rebel Alliance could be considered rich.

But Chewie was firm. _It takes money to have ideals. The rest are just trying to survive._

Leia shook her head. "We are fighting for them. We are fighting their fight."

 _You are fighting a political war. For good reasons, yes, and I agree with them._ Chewie paused as the slave returned with their drinks. When he was gone, the Wookiee said: _but some people are fighting for their next meal. And that war takes precedence over yours._

Leia licked her lips and sat back, cupping her drink with two hands. She knew this, of course. She understood on a remote level that some people couldn't afford to be idealists. But as a political representative she had also been warned about idealism. She had defied that warning every day of her political career and then, when politics were no longer an option, she'd defied the warning every day in the Alliance's rank and file. Defiance was rebellion, and Leia was by nature a rebel. She was an adopted princess; she was an Imperial senator at eighteen. She was Pearl. And she would never understand political complacency.

But she couldn't argue against the bare, bald truth of Chewie's observations. What exactly could their waiter do? What could Katya or her brother do? It wasn't complacency if you had no choice, was it?

 _I am worried about Cub,_ Chewie growled, interrupting her thoughts and without any warning.

Heat. Hurt. Disappointment. Anger flooded through her at the nickname, but here was the distance she'd needed to make sense of it. And Chewie was by nature a protective being. He would not knowingly bring up a subject that would hurt her.

And so Leia raised an eyebrow and assumed nonchalance. "Worried?"

 _Cub does not handle internal stress well, Little One. He is a being of action, not of thoughts._

She frowned, considered the past day and Han's errant anger, his tension, the way he'd stood in front of the entrance of the hovel like an armed stormtrooper while she talked with Katya. The way his eyes had hardened into flat, angry lines of green as she'd left the hotel room, his hands clenched and his breath short.

"Internal stress?" she asked, not ready to let Han off the hook for his words in the hotel but intrigued despite herself. "We are all stressed. No one else is throwing insults around."

 _Salla brings much weight with her,_ he lowered his growl further to disguise the name. _Many memories. And he is acting … strangely._

Leia nodded. "I noticed. Angrier?"

Chewie whuffed an affirmative.

"Did she say something to him?" she asked. "Threaten him in any way?"

The Wookiee shook his head. _I do not think so. It seems like … regret._

She pursed her lips, lifted her drink—a Lomilian Ale with a bitter aftertaste—and took a small sip. She felt awkward about discussing this with Chewie, not because she hadn't considered that some of Han's temper might have arisen because of Salla's presence, but because this was a thought she would never have dared speak aloud, much less to the being Han most respected and cared for.

"Regret?" she echoed.

Silver-toned lines of anxiety slid down her throat and into her stomach as she remembered Salla's words once again: _I won't get in the way._

 _Salla reminds Cub of his mistakes,_ Chewie growled. _And there are many._

Leia absorbed the information: took another sip of her drink. Curiosity got the better of her and when she set down her glass, she asked: "What happened? Between Han and Salla, I mean."

Chewie's eyes were fixed on hers, blue to brown, imparting history with solemnity and care. After a moment he placed his forearms against their table and leaned forward, as if sharing a secret.

 _Salla wanted to be bonded to Cub. She offered the codes to her ship and expected Cub's codes in return. Cub awoke in the middle of the night and we left without notifying Salla._

"Oh," she murmured, a small pit yawning wide in her stomach. "You just … _left?"_

Chewie nodded, eyes acutely trained on hers.

Leia looked at her glass of ale, watching colors fade in and out of the prism of her drink. When she'd considered Han and his past relationships, she had always imagined flings. Temporary arrangements. Immediate sexual gratification and mutual disregard. She'd pictured a long line of beings, nonchalantly going about the business of pleasure, a regimen designed to feed an appetite but with an express desire to _not get involved._

 _I ain't in this for your revolution. I'm not in it for you, Princess._

But then Leia had been introduced to Salla, a being who had definitely had more than just a fling with Han. And now there were pockets of unknowns in her understanding of Han, places where his complexity existed, where the hard act he performed for the world fell apart at the seams.

Surely he was capable of caring for others. He cared for Chewie, cared for Luke. Had he cared for Salla?

Had he cared for Salla _and still left?_

"Did he …?" She trailed off, thought better of her question, and began again. "He doesn't seem like the commitment type."

Chewie's laugh rumbled in the air, sparking amusement in the low light of the cantina. _No. Not yet._

She smiled, imagining Han as a husband, a father, a reputable member of society. Maybe in a softer world; maybe if the war ended and he was able to embrace the man Chewie clearly thought he was. Maybe if he was allowed to be the person she trusted. Maybe if his debt to Jabba the Hutt was cancelled and the galaxy learned to embrace beings of harsh backgrounds without judging them for circumstances beyond their control …

 _Not yet._

Intrigued, Leia leaned in. " _Not yet?_ That is oddly phrased, Chewie."

Another rumbled laugh, not carefree but certainly light. _Cub feels things deeply and pretends he doesn't. I'm afraid he will discover this too late to earn the trust of his mate._

Complex ideas: complex language. Leia struggled to discern meaning from the growls. She thought she understood the gist of what the Wookiee had meant, that Han was deeper than he allowed his reputation to be.

 _Beauty lies in deep waters, not shallow pools._ Her mother's wisdom had never been as applicable as with this particular man.

But Chewie's last growl had used the _permanence range,_ a Shyriiwook tone reserved for longstanding relationships and undeniable truths. He had taught her the value of the tone only a month into their acquaintance after using it to describe the Life Debt he owed his captain: an indication of forever-value, he'd explained. Intractable. A Wookiee used the permanence range for gravitic signatures and death and loyalty to family clans. Not for emotional states. Not for feelings.

Confused, she asked: "His what?"

 _Mate,_ he repeated, his tone soft _. His one. His match. The one he wants._

And she knew. She knew exactly what Chewie was telling her, why he felt he needed to talk with her alone. Why he had disclosed such horrible, personal history to her. Because Chewie felt that Han was permenantly spoiling the trust Leia had in him. Because Chewie knew his captain in a way that Leia did not.

Because Chewie thought _she_ was Han's mate. And he said it using the permanence range.

She opened her mouth, closed it. Tried to put words into a coherent denial. Tried to arrange them in a casual, dismissive way that was respectful to Chewie and slightly amused. She liked Chewie—loved him, even, for his gentleness, his clear-eyed opinion and kindness—but a pronouncement like that wasn't hung on truth.

Han didn't want her like that. He wanted to sleep with her, conquer the frosty behemoth that was the last Princess of Alderaan. He wanted a notch on his bedpost reserved for beings like Leia, like Salla, like scores of others.

 _But he cared for Salla,_ a quiet voice whispered. _He cares for you, too._

A flash of green eyes, furious at her for leaving the hovel to speak to a slave. Lips screwed tight in worry when she proposed entering the coder's flat. The terrified look on his face when she had told him she was going to Nar Shaddaa.

He cared.

Leia felt her throat work, heard her voice answer the thought out loud: wilted and crumbling and so endlessly vulnerable that she couldn't believe it was hers.

"If that's true, if he cares, then why is he leaving?"

The underlying question. The foundation of all their troubles. If Han Solo was capable of loving another—and recent revelations made it appear that he was—and if he cared for Leia the way Chewie thought he did, then why was he so adamant about leaving? The Alliance, the cause, his friends?

Her?

Why would he insist on breaking the heart he didn't know he'd already won by sacrificing himself for a debt she could help him pay? She'd offered him the deal for the Alliance to help him accrue funds to pay off his debt. He'd had an opportunity to show her that he wanted to stay and he'd thrown it in her face!

Why, why, why?

 _Little Princess,_ Chewie began, softly.

And then his kind eyes shifted to the back entrance to the cantina and Leia felt a sudden pressure along her spine. Chewie bared his teeth and reached a paw to grip her wrist beneath the table, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

She shifted, turned to look at what had caught the Wookiee's sudden interest. A young human male, pale and thin, with ragged black hair and long, nervous arms, stood at the bar, leaned into the plastisteel with practiced care. He opened his mouth to order from the bartender but Leia couldn't hear what he said

"What is it?" she asked Chewie.

The human tapped his fingers on the bar as he waited, uncomfortable. His eyes swept across _The Rough Shod_ with sleepy concern, eyeing the clientele in a general sweep before stopping on Chewie and Leia with a hint of interest.

Leia sucked in a breath.

Chewie's hand tightened on her wrist and she could hear him breathing next to her. _I believe that is our coder,_ he growled.

Leia didn't move, held the human's eyes and lifted her glass to her lips with her other hand. "What?" she asked him when the glass could obscure her words.

 _Look at his apparel,_ the Wookiee huffed. _The patch on his chest._

Leia turned her head and dropped her eyes in her closest approximation to a coy smile. "What about it?"

Chewie growled, wordless, and shifted his bowcaster toward him. Frenetic energy pulsed beneath his fur and Leia was suddenly aware of how big, how imposing the Wookiee looked to humans if they didn't know his character and goodness. He reached around her, pulled her shoulders toward him.

 _That is the Smuggler's Guild Badge,_ he said under his breath. _Do you see? The six-armed star? The blue thread around the Basic?_

Leia couldn't see it, her human eyes too weak and the light too dim in the cantina, but her heart began to beat double-time, her eyes growing large. "Are you sure?"

The Wookiee growled his reply and tightened his hold on her shoulders.

And Leia deliberately lifted her chin, turned back to the human at the bar, met his eyes and smiled in carefree, winsome invitation.


	11. Familiar

_Familar_

* * *

Han paced in front of the hotel room window, hands on his hips and mouth stubborn in its frown. He couldn't decide if what he most wanted to do was punch the wall, strangle Chewie or wrap Leia in his arms like the lost cause he had become. The fact that he couldn't feasibly do any of those things pissed him off. Impotent rage bubbled in his gut and Han was sure that his anxiety was palpable.

 _Leia._

His hands clenched into fists and he turned to stalk to the other wall in the same tired route he'd undertaken twenty times since Chewie had left. He didn't know how to dispel the sheer terror he felt at Leia's absence. His job … _fuck,_ his job was to protect her. In the galaxy of things he couldn't do—keep her, kiss her, love her—he could do that one thing, and he could do it better than anyone else.

And here he was: helpless. Helpless because he'd opened his mouth and said the stupidest thing and made her storm out of here. If he'd bothered to think, _like_ _at all,_ he could've predicted she would rush off. Of course she would. Because who the fuck tells the woman they want that she doesn't know how to make people want her?

He sighed and turned again, wiping a hand down his face in frustration.

Salla had been the one to talk him down, to let Chewie go find Leia after they'd recovered from their shock. Han had been primed to go after her: like a nexu hunting his prey. Like a man terrified to lose his whole world. He couldn't stand the thought of Leia alone on Nar Shaddaa, the danger she would find. Because she _would_ find it, or it would find her, and his chest cracked wide open at the thought of her coming to any harm.

He thought he'd understood fear. In his life he'd known mortal danger, had faced his own death many times and come out the other side with a sad sort of inevitability.

He hadn't had a _clue._

"You need to calm down," Salla said, a voice of rare patience in the noxious atmosphere of his panic.

Han turned livid eyes on her, noting her stayed poise on the bed. She leaned back on her palms and tilted her head to the side: the very picture of serenity.

"I'm calm," he spat.

The lie was so blatant it was almost funny. He was nowhere near calm. And they both knew it.

Salla chuckled and stretched her legs out, crossing them at the ankles. "If this is calm then you lost some nerve since I knew you."

Han rolled his eyes and resumed his pacing. "What do you know about it?" he muttered.

He didn't have the time or the patience for Salla's sarcasm. He'd been stripped of his humor and what was left was his anxiety and the fading taste of anger on his lips. There wasn't space in his head for Salla.

He hooked his thumbs into his belt and turned his head to glance out the window. The street outside looked harmless: a few half-lit alleys, beings minding their own business, weak daylight streaming through smog and atmospheric pollution.

But Han couldn't stop thinking of passersby with vibro-knives, ready to kidnap and sell the last Princess of Alderaan to the the closest Imperial Moff. And they wouldn't take the time to interrogate her; that'd been an enormous mistake on the Death Star. They'd flip on the holocams and shoot her in the head so the entire galaxy could see, in real time, what happens to traitors to the Empire.

 _This is what happens when you defy the Emperor. This is what happens when you resist._

Or worse: someone affiliated with Jabba would see Leia as a kind of living, breathing shortcut to Han himself. He knew he'd been caught on holo with her on Minthros; he knew the bounty hunters had added her to the list of his last known associates. Her picture sat right next to his in their bounty sheets.

Jabba would torture her in front of Han. He would make it painful. He'd make her scream, humiliate her, hurt her. He would ... he would ….

No.

"She'll be fine," Salla said from behind him. "She's no shrinking violet, your princess."

Han huffed out a breath, happy to be distracted from the macabre thoughts. "Not my princess," he growled. "Stop calling her that."

Salla didn't reply right away. In the quiet Han took a deep breath and forced himself to plant his feet near the window. He brought his elbow up to the wall beside the transparisteel and leaned his mouth on his hand, glaring at the street and the pedestrians outside as if they were personally responsible for his predicament.

"Han," he heard.

He turned to face Salla. She sat up, elbows on her knees and hands clasped between. Her eyes were careful, hesitant.

Han got a bad feeling about whatever Salla was about to say.

"Did you notice the door? When she left?"

Han stared at her careful eyes, at the line of tension in her shoulders. He blinked. "The door?" he asked, thinking _why the hell would I be worried about the door?_

"It … uh," she cleared her throat nervously, seemed to gather herself, and finished in a rush, "—it closed by itself."

"By itself," he repeated.

She opened her mouth but no words came out. Startling orange eyes blinked at him and Han felt _evaluated:_ like he was being judged for all the strangeness that seemed to follow him around these days.

"I heard a rumor," she finally said. "About her."

Han's immediate reaction was to bristle; he fought it down. "Which one?" he asked. "Lots of rumors out there."

"I heard that the Imps tortured her. That Vader himself was in the room."

He didn't move a muscle.

Salla continued into the anxious silence. "They say she didn't break. Is that true?"

He turned back to the window, pressed his mouth into his hand and tried not to sound like the question bothered him. "People say a lot of things."

"But is it true?" she pressed.

Han swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. He knew the answer to this question because he'd seen the scars on her sides from the injections. He'd been in the Imperial Navy; he'd gone through Carida. He knew what high-level prisoners could expect when in captivity.

And he'd seen her stats as they flashed across the comp screen in the Death Star detention level.

Leia Organa hadn't talked.

"Yeah," he muttered. "It's true."

Quiet. The ambient noise of flickering lights and a low hum from the cooling unit haphazardly installed in the farthest corner of the room from the window. Footsteps from the room above them. The creak of movement in the hallway outside their door.

Then he heard Salla exhale.

"Everybody breaks," she said, her voice low. Like she was telling a secret. "Everybody breaks for Vader."

Han shrugged, knowing Salla was watching him, but he was unable to summon a better response. He knew. He knew better than anybody. And it had kept him up at night, the thought that Leia had withstood Vader, the thought that it wasn't possible to hold out against the drugs. Basic human biology.

Everybody breaks.

"She didn't," he finally muttered into his hand.

A rustle of bedsheets and Salla was at his elbow, her hand on his back. Han didn't move, perched as he was looking out the window, searching for the princess in question. Chewie should have found her by now, they should be on their way back. He didn't know what his next move would be but he was about five minutes away from doing something. Anything.

"I thought I was kidding when I said you were in love with her," Salla said, and Han snapped back into focus. "But."

Han pursed his lips. "Yeah. But."

He didn't have the space to deny it anymore. He was worn thin, frantic for Leia's safety, desperate to get them all out of here. He was angry and brittle and terrified and had no idea what he felt anymore.

 _But._

He shook his head. "It'll never happen. I can't stay."

Salla's hand ran up his back, familiar and warming but without any sexual intent at all. It was strange, a woman touching him without a clear seductive motivation. Han was not used to casual affection.

"You can't stay," she echoed. "That feels familiar."

Han winced, wanting to leave. He wanted Salla's hand to stop. He wanted to go find Leia.

But this was a confrontation he'd long put off, that he'd been trying to avoid. And he was caught in a frame of mind that was unusually reflective: his anger gone and his needs clearly splayed out in front of Salla like a banquet.

And she was so close. And it wasn't _her_ hand he wanted on his back.

A tipping point. Go forward or keep falling backwards. It wouldn't change anything: he was still leaving the Alliance and he was still going to pay off Jabba and there was a good chance he'd never see Salla or Leia again after that.

But that wasn't the point.

He was tired of hurting people. He was tired of running, of looking behind his shoulder at a line of people he'd used and tossed aside. He was tired of living for a life that didn't mean anything.

He was _tired._

"I'm sorry," he said, and turned his head to look at Salla. "I'm sorry I left the way I did. Wasn't fair to you."

Salla's hand stilled on his back, surprised eyes widening. Her lips opened in a soft exhale.

Han swallowed, regret thick in his throat, and turned away from those eyes. He wasn't naive enough to think that apologizing for such a heartless mistake would make any difference to her. And he didn't expect for it to make much of a difference to him, either. The past was the past.

But … Leia.

Leia would have apologized a long time ago. Leia wouldn't have left in the first place, but if she _had_ it wouldn't have taken her years to realize the damage she had done. It was the same kind of strength that she'd shown in defying Vader. It was the kind of shit that dazzled him, left him gaping. Her life meant something: to him, yes, but also to the entire galaxy. When she died in her zealot war, she would be missed. It would mean something.

Maybe … maybe he wanted more of that in his life.

"Look, Salla—" he began, but was interrupted by a crackle of static from the far side of the hotel room.

Han turned to stare at the equipment Chewie had set up, the cams and the audio receiver crammed into the corner. His back broke in a cold sweat, a line of dread running up his spine.

"What is that?" Salla asked, stepping away from Han.

He shrugged. "Dunno."

The static picked up, loud, and Han realized the audio receiver Chewie had thrown onto the coder's window had switched on with movement from the flat. They heard distant footsteps, the _whoosh_ of a door, and the sound of shuffling. The static dissolved into full ambient sound, and they could hear breathing, shifting, movement.

"It's a mess," a male voice said. "I hope you don't mind."

And then a female voice: low and warm and so damned familiar he wanted to scream.

"That's alright," Leia said. "I don't mind a little mess."

Han's swallowed, met Salla's eyes, and felt his panic consume him whole.


	12. The Flat, Part 1

_The Flat, Part 1_

* * *

"It's a mess," he said. "I hope you don't mind."

Internally Leia cringed. The coder's flat was filthy: discarded clothing strewn about the floor, used tableware dotting uneven surfaces. She could spot wooden slats between piles of garbage but the glimpses were few and far between. Three right shoes littered the floor in front of her, their partners nowhere to be found. Dark, with the blinds drawn and the lights low, it was hard to distinguish what was furniture and what was, say, a pile of soiled sheets. Her skin felt rough with the dust in the air and the mustiness of the flat hinted at mold growing somewhere inside the walls.

That thought nearly triggered her gag reflex. She fought it with every nervous, durasteel bit of confidence she had.

She turned to the coder, watched his narrow gray eyes as they scanned her body from head to toe as if she couldn't see him. Disgust of an entirely different sort ran beneath her skin, objectifying and cruel. Not Han's casual, admiring eyes. Not the adoration of Luke or the esteem of Chewie or even the frank delight of Salla Zend.

 _Smile,_ she told herself. _Smile and project the fantasy._

"That's alright," she said with a hint of a smile. "I don't mind a little mess."

She did. She absolutely did. She minded the haphazard way this man lived, the evidence of neglect that dotted the flat. Not the same as Han's sometimes cluttered existence on the _Falcon,_ where one could find a solar cell in a crate or a pack of rations depending on the day of the week or the business at hand. With Han there was utility, an organized grid at work. Every decision was made with survival in mind. And just as Leia could complain all she wanted about not being able to find what she needed on the old freighter, she could also always recognize that the organization existed, even if she couldn't understand it.

The coder—who had identified himself as Brill Stone, and that could not possibly be a real, given name, could it?—lived in filth and had eyes rooted in possession.

Leia carefully considered her boundaries, the lines she would not cross, and committed to her part.

"So, uh," Stone began, and Leia blinked to bring herself back to the task at hand. "Do you want to sit? Have a drink?"

Leia's smile widened. "Sure," she said, trying for that lazy, two-note enunciation she'd heard from Salla.

 _I am comfortable,_ it said. _I am accustomed to encounters like this._

Stone turned his back and bent over what looked like a newer-model conform couch, sweeping aside a small mountain of deterius. Leia saw one of the missing left shoes fly off the cushion and onto the floor with a _smack._

"I have a Solonian ale and a Frishkye rum," he said, standing to his full height: taller than Leia but shorter than Han by a good margin. Slight in frame, he carried himself in his narrow hips and not in his heels. Easy to trip, easy to overpower with the right kind of leverage.

 _I can take him,_ she decided.

"The ale," she said and stopped herself from adding the _please._

Her assumed identity, an offworld contractor named Lee, was still nebulous in Leia's mind. Sitting by Chewie in _The Rough Shod,_ she'd had scant seconds before the coder had walked to their booth. A blink of an eye to analyze her options.

 _You are an offworlder,_ Chewie growled to her. _You cannot pretend to be local._ _I will follow you. Keep your blaster on you at all times. Do not drink anything._

Leia had internalized all his information while she smiled beguilingly at the coder. They were solid, reasonable assessments and she fully intended to use them to her advantage. Chewie offered her logic, saw an opening where there hadn't been one minutes before, and had supported her in her efforts.

It occurred to her that perhaps she would have been better served coming to Nar Shaddaa with only Chewie and Threepio. Han's already inflated overprotectiveness, while a benefit on most missions, was proving to be difficult to manage in this particular situation. His anger—and _hers,_ too, she could now admit with some distance and Chewie's careful revelations—were not helping matters at all and were compromising her ability to get the job done.

But no. Even with all his stubbornness, his anger, his complications, she would rather navigate the trenches with Han Solo than anyone else.

"You sure your Wookiee doesn't mind you being up here?" the coder asked from a filth-patched corner of the flat she assumed was the kitchenette. "He's not gonna tear down the door, is he?"

Leia tossed her head in nonchalance, thinking _he might just do that._ "No," she breathed. "He knows better."

Another thing she'd picked up from Salla: deliberate avoidance of any absolutes. Salla operated in vague circumstances; she existed in an in-between state so that she could mold herself into another person at the drop of a hat. And Leia found her example incredibly helpful. She hadn't specified to the coder who Chewie was to her, hadn't said what her employer had contracted her to do.

No specifics.

She pursed her lips as she sat on the cleared couch, crossing her legs at the knee and leaning back into the armrest. She swept her eyes around the flat, noting the two nests of tech equipment on either side of the room. To her left was a doorway she thought might lead to a bedroom. To her right was the flat's only window: the one that looked directly into the hotel room in which Han and Salla waited.

She stared at the shut-and-blinded window, thinking of the hard line of Han's mouth before she'd left. Clearing her throat, she turned her head to watch the narrow shoulders of the coder as he hunted through a refrigeration unit.

Leia thumbed the comm in her vest pocket, reminded herself that Chewie was waiting just outside the door. She was in control of this situation. She was in charge.

 _Get the badge,_ she thought. _All you have to do is get the badge._

A flicker of movement at the corner of her eye and the coder moved into her field of vision, hauling himself into the couch with graceless abandon. He held out to her an unopened bottle with an uneven twist to his lips that Leia assumed was supposed to be a smile.

Not like the cocksure, attractive half-grin that she most adored. Not at all like that.

"Where are you from?" the coder asked as he brought his bottle to his lips and threw his arm onto the back ledge of the couch. His fingertips brushed against her shoulder, the exposed skin of her upper arm, and she focused on keeping her expression untroubled.

"I'm from somewhere," she said.

He lifted an eyebrow. "Somewhere, huh?"

"Does it matter?"

She was proud of the cool, low tone of her voice. The first seductive tactic she'd discovered, the first tool in her kit. Before breasts, before the barest glimpse of innocent skin, before the surprising revelation of what unbound hair could do … before all of that was the low, confident tone of simple words. At fourteen years old, she'd harnessed the power of her voice, used it to persuade: used it to conceal and to deceive.

 _Don't know how to use the anatomy?_ she thought with no small amount of ugly vindictiveness, the vestiges of her anger at the only man who had the power to hurt her. _Watch me, Solo._

* * *

A strange experience, watching Han Solo dissolve into panic.

Salla Zend observed his pacing, the hand that settled on his forehead, the laser-hot glare of his narrow eyes as he scowled at Chewbacca's makeshift security suite. In a million years, she never would have thought anyone would be capable of unravelling Han the way the princess had. It was like watching a man possessed.

 _Nope,_ the coder said through the static of the receiver. _Doesn't matter at all._

 _Good,_ the princess said.

"I'm gonna kill her," Han breathed.

Salla leaned against the far wall nearest the window and watched Han fidget and prowl as he listened to the princess and the coder. The energy coming off him was relentless, like the flashbang wildfire of an Imperial dogfight or the seconds before a dangerous lightspeed jump. She had only seen such dark focus in Han when he was seated in the pilot's chair. If this was the emotion that the princess stoked in him, no wonder he fought it so hard. It looked like hell.

When Salla had thought Han loved her years ago, she'd measured his devotion by the kindness in his eyes, at the way he'd grab her hand when they were alone. No one was kind out here, no one was gentle. The underground world of smuggling was vicious, selfish and dangerous and Han had been the one decent being she'd known. He didn't hit, he didn't scream, he didn't manipulate to get what he wanted.

And that was love, wasn't it? Casual affection, a warmth that didn't exist in sexual flings and nights with strangers? The way his eyes crinkled when he looked at her? His ready smile? The careful touch of his fingertips against her skin?

Wasn't it proof of his love if he was different from anyone else she'd known? Didn't that mean that she was unique to him? Special?

It didn't, and she'd long-ago realized her mistake.

Maybe Han was gentle with everyone in his interpersonal relationships. Maybe he seeked casual affection as a way to force his own childhood trauma to the backburner. Maybe that was the way he was with everyone.

Just because it was new for her did not mean it was new for him.

And so Han Solo had hurt her, and for a time she had wanted to hurt him back as savagely as she could. She'd wanted to reel him back in and then leave him in the middle of the night, she'd wanted to steal someone important away from him, she'd wanted to sabotage some vital part of the _Falcon_ so that he'd be stranded on an ugly world he hated while repairs were made. Salla would never try to kill him; at the end of the day, he was still someone she could trust to be a standup businessman and those were few and far between in the galaxy. She was too savvy an entrepreneur to burn valuable bridges.

But for a time she'd wanted him to hurt, too.

"I'm gonna kill her," Han said again, lower now: a private lament, his voice so low that she barely heard him.

Time did strange things to pain. It could fester or it could heal and Salla was not the kind of person to let another control her destiny. The pain Han had caused in her ribs lessened and she breathed without remembering him and life went on as usual. And she'd realized that what she'd felt for Han had been a kind of love, sure, but not _love._ Infatuation. Friendship. A common enemy in the system that had made them criminals.

But looking at Han now, hunched over the receiver, fingers tapping nervously on the wall beside him, his eyes wild and desperate, she knew that what Han felt for the princess was not the same as what he had felt for Salla.

It stung a bit, she admitted to herself. Her ego wanted to square up and create a scene. Because Han hadn't fallen in love with anyone in their circles. He'd fallen for a telekinetic, freaky princess with the second-highest Imperial bounty in the galaxy. It would be so easy to think the worst of him; that he rejected his roots, that he thought he was better than everyone else.

That ignored the pain he was in now, though, and his pain was hard to discount: on display and so awfully present that she couldn't tease him about it.

 _What's the rush?_ The princess's voice issued from the receiver and Salla perked up.

 _You wanna go to the bedroom?_ The coder sounded confused.

With a harsh breath, Han lunged for the door. Salla cleared the bed in a running leap and caught his elbow just as he opened the door and stepped into the hallway outside their room.

"You have to trust her," Salla said.

Han tried to shake her off, but she gripped harder, the fabric of his shirt protesting.

"She's a goddamned nutcase," Han growled, though he seemed to relent and let Salla drag him back into the room. "You don't know, Sal. You don't know what she's willing to do."

 _I wanna get what I want,_ the princess said and Salla almost laughed at the dual-meaning of her words. _It'll be worth the wait._

"Look, Han," she said, trying to drown out the shuffling on the other end of the receiver, the clear indication of movement. "You can't make someone be any different from who they are. Trust me, I know."

It worked. Han turned guilty eyes on her, broke his rabid focus on the receiver.

"She's crazy," he said.

"We're all crazy," Salla replied. "There is no good reason why we should all be here together. I should've shot you the minute I saw you."

Han rolled his eyes. "You should've _tried._ "

She smiled. "But I didn't, because I'm not a heartless bitch. And she's not either. And it's time for you to accept that she can take care of herself, huh?"

Han shut his mouth and the only sound in the room was a soft hum of low conversation coming from the receiver. Salla let go of his elbow and stepped to the security suite. She took an educated guess about where Chewbacca would have installed the volume key and stabbed a large green button with her index finger.

The ambient noise grew louder and Han and Salla could now distinguish the separate voice of the coder, speaking in a lower register and with a hint of pride.

… _Shaddaa. It's a big deal around here. Those of us who were a part of it got this badge._

Salla's eyes flew to Han's. "She found it," she said. "She found the badge."

Han pressed his lips together, nodded, and joined Salla at the receiver to wait.


	13. The Flat, Part 2

_The Flat, Part 2_

* * *

Perched at the edge of the conform couch, Leia tried valiantly to keep her expression neutral. Brushing off Stone's advances hadn't been particularly difficult for her; she was an expert in that field. Years working in an Imperial senate led by a lecherous bastard had taught her how to get her point across, even before the combat training provided by the Alliance.

Brushing off his advances while still trying to keep the conversation on track was proving more of a challenge.

His hand slid along her knee, stroking to the middle of her thigh and back again. Only a slight pressure on the fabric of her trousers, but Leia had to fight the urge to slap his hand away. _You don't mind,_ she reminded herself. _You don't mind him or the touch of his hand or his impatient, blatant glances toward his bedroom._

Leia's respect for Salla tripled.

"Have you lived here long?" Leia asked, trying to refocus the coder but internally wincing at the mild panic evident in her voice.

 _You are in control. You are in control. This doesn't go anywhere you don't want it to go._

Stone blinked at her, eyes confused as he sat up and flattened his hand on her knee. "Yeah," he whispered and dove for her lips without another word.

Leia leaned away, forcing down her disgust. She wasn't against the idea of kissing the coder—her boundary had been removal of clothing and that was that, end of story—but she wasn't going to let that happen so early in the conversation. Her lips were a last resort and she hadn't tried everything else yet.

She pressed a hand to Stone's breastbone, wanting to keep him close and not reject him entirely, but still prevent him from kissing her.

Thin, lifeless lips beneath shallow gray eyes. _No._

She wanted full, cocksure lips over a delicious, scarred chin, wanted brilliant green eyes. Beautiful, imperfect, capable hands and terribly long legs. Wanted a madman organization over haphazard filth and a deep, penetrating voice to challenge and goad and incite with every gruff word he spoke. _That's_ what she wanted.

 _Who_ she wanted.

She wanted emotional chaos. She _craved_ his attention, was desperate for his affection and his loose moments of kindness. And it made her furious and it made her vulnerable and, suddenly, she understood the venom that had come from their mouths for what it was. Why he could wound her so profoundly with words that were impotent on the lips of others. Why Chewie ran after her when she'd felt so twisted by Han's thoughtlessness.

Han and she were not meant for this kind of casual interlude.

"What's the rush?" she asked Stone, just to say something. To give herself time to accept this new truth, a shift in the dynamic.

He sat back with a puzzled look on his face. "You wanna go to the bedroom?" he asked.

Leia almost laughed: the look of confusion was so clear on his face. The whole system of casual intimacy seemed outrageously immature to her, an entitlement, and when confronted with any resistance the adult facade crumbled quicker than a Coruscanti minute.

 _We are not Han and Salla. We are not meant for leaving._

His pout soothed some of her nerves. Stone was not worried about any threat she posed to him if he was willing to jump into bed with her. And though he worked for a dangerous criminal organization and performed illegal acts on the Hutt's behalf, he didn't seem to be terribly trigger-happy; in fact, she hadn't seen a trigger anywhere on him yet.

 _Criminality must be a spectrum,_ she thought, thinking of Stone and Salla and Han and Chewie.

She tried a different tack, taking the lead away from him and asserting herself as the dominating presence in the encounter.

"I wanna get what I want," she said, and wrapped a hand around Stone's wrist in a forestalling gesture. "It'll be worth the wait."

His eyes widened and his thin lips pulled back into a slow smile as she inched closer to him.

She fought against the desire to roll her eyes and tried to use his distraction to figure out how to get the badge off him. Han's talk of a disrupter net made her wary of simply stunning Stone and ripping the badge off of him in a hurry. Did stun blasts deactivate coding? What if there was a kind of kill-switch on the badge that wiped the memory when it was removed from his person?

Leia was not a technical expert and she was certainly no coder. Han and Chewie would know better what she could expect from this man in front of her. But Leia had to act with an abundance of caution or risk erasure of data or damage to the badge and with it the fruits of all their labor here on Nar Shaddaa. If she moved too quickly she could lose everything.

 _Careful,_ she cautioned herself. _You are not in danger. You are in control._

She leaned into Stone, pressed her knee against his and lifted her hand to trace the outline of the badge fastened onto his chest with a cheap adhesive backing he'd applied to his shirt. One finger: slow. Her face was centimeters away from his and she could smell the too-sweet Frishkye rum on his breath.

Her eyes caught his. "What's this?" she asked, tapping the badge twice and then resuming her slow caress.

Stone gulped and wrapped his hand around her hips, bringing her body closer to his.

A wandering thought: Han's hands were bigger than Stone's. Warmer. Safer.

She shook her head and smiled at Stone, pushing Han out of her mind to keep herself engaged.

"It's a badge from the Smuggler's Guild," he answered her. "A real one."

Leia pretended to examine the badge, the six-armed star, the Basic lettering surrounded by blue thread that was wearing away. She pressed her index finger between the back of the badge and the fabric of his shirt, trying to judge its weight. It was heavier than she had imagined, and thicker, too. Easy to see why Salla had chosen it for Grouka's coordinates: it was deceptively nondescript.

"You're a part of the Smuggler's Guild then?" Leia asked.

"Yeah," Stone said, lying with boyish pride. "I was a member back before it disbanded."

She opened her eyes wide, mimicked impressed interest. "Really?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I fought in the Battle of Nar Shaddaa. It's a big deal around here. Those of us who were a part of it got this badge."

Leia paused, tilted her head: no longer having to fake her surprise. "The Battle of Nar Shaddaa?"

One of the greatest early successes against the Empire?

A victory largely won through brilliant strategy and the brazen efforts of a handful of unknown criminals?

 _That_ battle?

Her brain short-started and then was off at a brisk pace, finding connections and answers to questions she hadn't yet asked. If the badges had been used in the Battle of Nar Shaddaa, and if Salla and Chewie both had one, then Han had one, too.

Which meant … _Han had been in the Battle of Nar Shaddaa._

She tapped her index finger against Stone's chest in thought, shocked and fresh with the internal warmth of a mystery solved. She had never in her nearly two year long acquaintance with Han Solo thought he'd been associated with the Battle of Nar Shaddaa. She knew he had been to the Academy on Carida, had known his past was rife with secrets and surprises.

But this? No. Never this.

She imagined Han in his smuggler's vest and tight-fitting pants, imagined him raining chaos on Admiral Greenlax with the _Falcon_ 's turbolasers. She imagined him as part of a coalition of smugglers and thieves, risking all while defending their right to exist and operate within the Imperial system. No one knew who had planned the operation; no one knew who was responsible for the cunning tactics and clever strategy of the defending force. She'd always been told that the names of the smugglers were lost to time and secrecy.

 _A few years back we did a thing and used badges to help us know who to trust,_ Han had said on their way to the Outer Shocks yesterday.

Leia fought against a wry smile. _You did a thing, Han? A_ thing _?_

 _You rebelled. You believed._

Leia's chest swelled, warmth suffusing her skin from head to toe. All she'd wanted was a reason to believe in him, to feel vindicated by her faith in his essential goodness, even if he refused to see it himself. Even when he said hurtful things—she wasn't innocent in that regard—even when he was curt and stubborn with her. She knew there was more there than that. She knew; he'd proved it again and again.

 _He believed._

"Heard of it?" Stone interrupted, pride obvious in the tone of his voice.

 _Heard of it? Ha!_ Leia wanted to laugh. Of course she'd heard of it: the whole galaxy had. And when desperate for good news, when ravenous for proof that the fledgling Alliance was not alone in their fight against the Empire, the Battle of Nar Shaddaa had been a talisman of good faith that when the larger fight happened, it would not simply be one force against another. It would be an oppressed galaxy fighting for its freedom.

"Yes," she answered. "I've heard a thing or two."

Leia traced the badge on Stone's chest again, feeling … protective? This badge did not belong to him. It belonged to Salla and now it was more than just the coordinates and the heaters. It was more than just Echo Base and sustainable living in a frozen tundra planet.

She looked up into the narrow gray of his eyes, judged their alignment on the couch, shifted closer.

This was about _rebellion._ And Leia Organa was excellent at rebelling.

* * *

 _Author's note: I will be taking another week off from updating C &P to ensure that I have chapters lined up and ready to go as we head into summer. Chapter 14 will be posted on Friday, June 22nd. Thank you for your patience! -KR_


	14. The Flat, Part 3

_The Flat, Part 3_

* * *

Chewbacca stood outside the door to the coder's flat and impatiently hefted his bowcaster in his arms. He was very tempted to hotwire the door controls and finish the business at hand himself. He had not slept well the previous evening. He'd been away from the _Falcon_ for far too long already. And Cub and Little Princess were acting particularly childish. These things did not make for a pleasant Wookiee disposition.

He huffed under his breath and corrected himself. He was not tired. He was _exhausted._

Chewbacca did not consider himself a terribly sophisticated being. His preferences fell somewhere between Cub's and Little Princess's; he liked his hammock large, he liked his meat raw, and he liked his home free. And barring a long sojourn to Kashyyyk to visit Malla and his cub, the _Falcon_ was home. The _Falcon_ kept him sheltered, she kept him busy, she kept him sharp. That was enough for now. His heart would always be with his clan and his hometree, but the _Falcon_ would do until Little Princess won her war and Kashyyyk could be liberated.

So he would stand guard outside the door until Little Princess needed him.

At any given time, Chewbacca would contemplate five or six paths he could walk. He had been one of the finest holochess players in his clan in his youth and his unique ability to strategize had been a great help to him throughout his many, many years. Opportunities and mysteries at every turn, explorations to make, adventures to have. That was how he navigated the galaxy. One path took him one way, another a different way. And from there the branches further divided, down and down and down into miasmas of possibility. And that excited Chewbacca. It was the stuff of adventure. Paths ad infinitum, branches splitting the sky into endless possibilities. He had a talent for peeking into their depths, of reading the leaves as the paths diverged.

And the pathway to freedom? For himself and Cub? The one that made the most logical sense with the strongest branch and the longest line? It led him to this door and to an interminable wait for Little Princess to obtain the badge.

And so he waited.

He could hear what was happening in the flat, could smell the soft Naboo Lily of Little Princess and the Nar Shaddaa tang of the coder. The scents had not merged and Little Princess had not called for him. Until either of those things happened, he would stand guard at the door and await her signal. Little Princess was capable. She could handle her own path, whatever Cub might think.

He growled softly to himself, wordless phonetics: a game he played first with his son, Lumpawaroo, and then with Little Princess as she learned Shyriiwook. Cub-talk, Malla had called it.

Gods, he missed her. It was long past time for the _Falcon_ to visit Kashyyyk.

Inside the coder's flat, the human bragged about being a part of the Battle of Nar Shaddaa. Chewbacca huffed a laugh at the idea of this simpering, simple-minded idiot having a place in the annals of that great battle. What need would they have had for a coder? The idea was ridiculous; anyone who'd earned the guild badge had flown and fought against Imperial control with their bare hands, paws, wits and courage.

And then his mirth soured, disgust snaking through his chest. This man was a liar! Worse, he lied about a battle that had cost other brave beings their lives!

Chewbacca's anger sparked like a live wire.

To steal glory for oneself was the lowest form of selfishness. Most cultures abided by some variant of the same rule: one does not lie about noble acts. If ever there was a galactic constant, that was it. And this _hrsstgh,_ this depraved cretin, took credit for Salla Zend's bravery in a great battle?

No! That was _her_ badge, _her_ touchstone. No one else had a right to own it but her. He may feel ambivalent about Salla Zend, he might even be somewhat suspicious about her motivations, but nothing erased great deeds. The coder could no more take Salla Zend's mark of bravery than he could take Cub's act of selflessness at the Battle of Yavin. These things were etched into the hero's path, the warrior's conscious.

Chewbacca's rage billowed and he caught his roar before it escaped his throat. Any path that began with an untimely discovery outside of this flat ended swiftly and with devastating consequences for Little Princess. Wookiee Battle Rage, _wrathryllum,_ had no place here. There were far too many unknowns and even more enemies on Nar Shaddaa. _Wrathryllum_ was a wonderful asset in battle—increased strength and the fortitude to utterly destroy everything in his path—but had little use in espionage. And Little Princess was in danger. That was an unacceptable risk.

He tightened his hold on his bowcaster and listened, breathing deeply.

It was interesting that Little Princess had now heard that the badges were connected to the battle. Whether or not she had put the leaves together was still a mystery. Had she seen the confluence of branches that tied Salla Zend and Cub and Chewbacca to the glorious fight against Admiral Greenlax? Chewbacca was very curious to know if she had figured it out yet.

Cub did not want her to know and Chewbacca did not understand why that was. On Kashyyyk he was a respected clansman precisely _because_ he had that badge. He had earned the right to speak of it; he'd proved his mettle and come away with a war trophy. Cub kept his locked in a drawer beside his bunk on the _Falcon_ where no one could celebrate him for it.

It made no sense to Chewbacca.

He rolled his eyes. If she _hadn't_ connected all the facts together yet, he would be disappointed in her. Little Princess was an astute human, far more emotionally intelligent than her mate and perhaps just as stubborn, though how in the universe they had managed to find such a human being was beyond him. He had once thought Cub was the most infuriating human to exist in this galaxy. It appeared he'd yet again underestimated the human race's general ridiculousness.

"So why wear the badge?" Little Princess asked inside the flat. "Isn't it dangerous?"

The coder made a low sound in his throat and Chewbacca guessed Little Princess had moved closer to him. It was a familiar sound: Cub made a similar one whenever Little Princess wound up in his arms. Human surprise. Unexpected pleasure.

Cub could fight against himself all he wanted but Chewbacca knew what was in the man's heart. More importantly, he knew _who_ was in Cub's heart. Cub was not subtle about it. Little Princess's name was written on Cub's roots, etched into his bark. Why they both denied it, Chewbacca would never understand. Wookiee clan mergers were far simpler than human ones. One found their mate and their paths moved forward together. This infernal _waiting_ was insane.

He hoped he had done the right thing by using the permanence range with Little Princess in the cantina. She needed to know, to understand, the strength of the bond between them. Their paths to each other were not inevitable and Cub had so far wandered a path separate from hers. If Cub was not careful—and he was _never_ careful—Little Princess's path would unravel far from his. And that would be a disaster for them all. Their scents made far more sense together than they did separately.

Chewbacca had seen how unfulfilled human lives could be when their paths diverged from their given mate's. And as he owed a Life Debt to Cub, he was sworn to prevent avoidable pain if at all possible.

And, too, Chewbacca flat-out _liked_ Little Princess. She was intelligent, amusing. She made Cub stronger and Cub made her softer. They would both be much improved by the other and Chewbacca liked that. One so rarely saw it in humans, after all.

Chewbacca realized he had begun to lean against the wall and refocused on the conversation inside the flat. Little Princess must be nearing the badge …

"I like the glory of it," the coder said, low. "I like how people respect it."

Without thinking, Chewbacca took a heavy step toward the coder's door and then froze, trying to tamp down his anger. Objectively he knew that other species, humans in particular, did not treasure glory in battle the way Wookiees did. And he knew that his anger could possibly put Little Princess in danger and that was not something for which he would ever be able to forgive himself.

So he swallowed his anger and froze.

"Did you hear that?" the coder asked. "I think someone is at my door—"

A shuffle of movement and the distinct sound of human lips pressing together and Chewbacca suddenly remembered the audio receiver he'd thrown onto the coder's window. There was no choice now: Chewbacca would have to move.

 _Cub will not be happy,_ he thought as he smashed the butt of his bowcaster against the controls and lunged for suddenly opened door of the flat.

* * *

Leia kissed Brill Stone without a second thought.

Without thinking of expressive green eyes or smirking full lips. Or the fire that was not present, or the spark of desire that was noticeably absent from her blood. Or the snap of her brain deactivating in lieu of beautiful surrender to a man she trusted.

No. She pressed her hands into Stone's shoulders and did not compare him to the broad-chested Corellian she wanted. She moved to straddle narrow hips and sit on weaker thighs and tried desperately to forget that Han might very well be listening. In a split second, she threw herself on top of Stone and used her anatomy the way Han claimed she didn't know how to do and felt … empty. Not empowered. Not stronger or more seductive or _right._

Empty.

A means to an end.

Stone seemed taken aback by her sudden kiss and the change in their positions, his hands jerking to his sides before landing on her hips, gripping and hard. Leia used his momentary distraction to run her right hand down his chest and under the badge. She tugged on it once to judge the strength of the adhesive and then a second time to tear it away, holding it behind her and out of Stone's reach. A muffled _bang_ came from the hallway outside of the flat and Leia knew Chewie was about to come barging through the door. All she had to do was survive another second and the badge would be theirs.

But the second lasted a lifetime, several heartbeats and a century's worth of vileness. She didn't want the coder, didn't want the bruises he was leaving on her hips, didn't want the sickly-sweet taste of the rum on his lips.

And in that last second, in the eternity before Chewie smashed through the door and all hell broke loose, Brill Stone pulled his head back and bit her lower lip. _Hard._

She jerked her head back and dropped the badge, so startled that she forgot what she had been doing. And in that moment, the space between two heartbeats, an angry Wookiee burst through the door, growling as he angled his bowcaster at the back of Stone's head.

Leia ignored her throbbing lip and latched onto the coder's throat with both hands. His hands spasmed and then pushed against her hips as she tried to keep him still, using her grip on his windpipe as leverage.

"I would advise against that," she murmured, locking her elbows and rising up from her perch on his thighs. "Wookiee bowcasters are deadly things."

Cold gray eyes widened and his hands tried one last push before he held them up in surrender.

Leia's eyes flicked up to Chewie, noting the angry glint in his eyes and the tense way he held his weapon. Once the Wookiee had crossed the room and stood in front of Stone, Leia loosened her hold on his throat and rose from the couch, running a hand over her split lip in disgust. A brushstroke of blood swept along the line of her thumb and she knew there was no way she was going to be able to hide this from Han.

The thought infuriated her.

"Who are you?" Stone whispered, his voice raw from her grip.

She stepped backward and knelt to pick up the badge. Heavy and adorned with a scrap of Stone's ripped shirt, the badge seemed to hold a dense weight even greater than its mettle.

"No one," Leia answered and handed the badge to Chewie for safekeeping. It disappeared into the Wookiee's giant fist.

"Are you going to kill me?"

Leia glanced back, momentarily stunned at the question. "Do you deserve to be killed?"

Most beings didn't deserve to be killed. Most beings had not done enough to warrant cruel, cold execution in their own flat.

But maybe that was the Alderaanian in her.

Stone blinked, eyes shifting from Chewie and back to Leia. "Probably," he said just before he lunged for the side table next to the couch.

On instinct, Leia followed, throwing her hands wide toward whatever Stone was attempting to reach. A split second, half a breath, and then Leia heard a loud _pop._ A flash of blinding red light, the smell of burnt circuitry and a Wookiee growl of pain …

… and then Leia was thrown into darkness, out cold as the fire burned around her.


	15. Safe

_Safe_

* * *

Han was out of the hotel room and to the speeder berth the instant he heard Chewie break down the coder's door. Salla didn't try to stop him this time; he could hear her footsteps behind him as they raced down the hotel hallway and passed the cracked walls of the decaying building. Their steps merged into one rhythm and the regular tempo did nothing but insist on the urgency of the moment.

Han's breath was short; his heartbeat more ache than sound. His chest squeezed, panic flooding his bloodstream in a wash of adrenaline and teror.

Leia and Chewie, alone and in danger. His people, the only beings who _could_ make him feel such heart-stopping, blood-freezing fear. This was his worst nightmare come to life and he would be _damned_ if he let anything happen to them on his watch.

He burst through the hotel hallway and into the open air of the speeder berth with a short relieved breath. Nar Shaddaa's filmy, heavy, waterlogged air hit his face and lungs, but he didn't slow, pumping his legs with frantic exertion, arms swinging at his sides.

 _Leia and Chewie._

 _Leia and Chewie._

He crossed the berth in seconds, launched himself into the driver's seat of his stolen speeder in one smooth motion. He flipped the controls to life as Salla jumped into the seat behind him, her blaster out and ready to cover him if necessary.

The speeder rumbled, quickstarted and true, and Han punched the accelerator, hopping over the side of the ledge of the berth and into the open air of the hoverlane. He focused on keeping the speeder level and compensating for Salla's weight shifting to the seat beside him. He looked up to the coder's window, just across the lane from their hotel room, trying to gauge if Salla would have to throw something to break the window or if he could get the speeder close enough for her to strike an elbow into the transparisteel.

But then the fine details of the window became clear to him and he heard a low _oh, shit_ from Salla beside him.

Black smoke crept from the lining of the window, a strange, slow indication of disaster. Han's hands tightened on the steering controls and he pressed the acceleration pedal into the floor with a low growl.

 _Leia and Chewie._

The disturbance net must have been triggered. That was the only reason he could imagine for the smoke. Lando had the better part of a day with a hacking cough after the bank disturbance net had been enacted, the residue of the burning circuitry lodging in his lungs like a lasting kick to his pride. Black smoke, fried equipment, in an enclosed space? In Nar Shaddaa, whose version of professional fire management was waiting for the building to turn to ash before the owner collected their insurance credits?

"Can you reach the window?" he shouted to Salla as he slid the speeder to a halt just under the ledge of the coder's flat.

She grunted the affirmative. Standing to her full height, boots sinking into the worn upholstery, Salla wrapped her right arm in her crew jacket and threw her elbow into the transparisteel. With a groan of torn microfibers and a loud shattering, the window exploded into shards. A thick wall of black smoke pushed through the window frame and dissipated into the air.

In a blink Salla was through the window. Han exhaled and set the hover thrusters. Without even a look at the fractured remnants of the window—shards of transparisteel littering the ledge and the front seat of the speeder—Han leaped into the coder's flat.

The smoke overtook him first. Thick, rolling, _hot:_ he threw his arm to shield his nose and mouth but couldn't protect his eyes as they stung in the dark. He blinked and cursed as he slowly took in the room, vision watery and blurred.

Salla was leaning over Chewie, her hand pressed to his chest to feel for a heartbeat. The Wookiee had fallen, prone, onto his side, his teeth bared and the fur on one paw singed. Han's heart stopped as he took in his oldest friend's figure.

 _C'mon, pal,_ he thought, words caught in a vicious loop. _C'mon._

"He's breathing," Salla shouted. "Where's the princess?"

Han's head swept the flat in a quick reconnaissance, details and shapes and colors flooding together in his rush to find her. Three frantic seconds passed before he spotted her on a conform couch, unconscious: hair in disarray and body limply covering another human.

He lunged, unthinking, heart in his throat, hands shaking. His knees hit the ground with a peripheral note of pain but he focused on his princess. Her eyes were closed but her chest rose and fell in steady breaths and Han's chest nearly caved in its need to ensure her safety.

"Leia," he croaked, the smoke and his own fear straining her name into an ugly, desperate thing.

His right hand smoothed over her face, fingers sweeping along her cheekbone. His other hand found her wrist, hunted for a pulse even as he noted her chest expand and contract. She was warm, and breathing, and _alive._ Surely that was enough to calm the torrent in his gut?

"Leia," he whispered again, bringing his face close to hers. "Sweetheart, wake up."

She didn't immediately respond and Han jostled her shoulder. He noted the cut above her eyebrow, her bleeding lip. Minor injuries, easily fixable with a simple bacta solution, but she needed to wake up. _Now._

And he noted the human-sized lump beneath her. Both of them looked like they had been knocked out by a concussion blast: Chewie was the only one with a burn that Han could see. Which meant Chewie must have been holding the badge when the disturbance net was blown.

Han grit his teeth and shook her shoulder harder, aware that if the coder was still alive—and his position hinted that he would be, protected by Leia's body from the worst of the blast—Leia was _still_ in danger.

"Get _up_ ," he hissed, leaning in, his mouth so close to the smooth skin of her lips that he would be tempted to kiss her were the situation not so dire.

And then her eyes shot open, wide and brilliant and anxious as she sat straight up. Her hands latched onto his wrists, defensive reflexes firing so quickly Han could barely react in time.

"Hey now," he said. "It's okay. It's me. You're okay."

" _Han,_ " she whispered, and her hands kept their place on his wrists but now there was palpable energy there as she stroked his skin with her thumb, then reached up to slide her hand along his neck.

Han was thrown by the sudden intimate touch. Her fingers felt like silk along his skin. And when he looked at her eyes he only saw relief and concern in the endless brown, not a hint of anger for the fucking _stupid_ things he'd said to her an hour ago or for his asshole-ish behavior throughout this mission. No condemnation of his past relationship with Salla. No blame for the danger he'd helped invite to their mission by being selfish.

None of it.

He felt the urge to apologize to her for what he'd said. He wanted to prove to her that he trusted her judgement. He needed to say something, _anything,_ about the stress of the past sixty-four minutes.

And she deserved all those things. And maybe this was the way to pull out of this tired, frustrating loop of their attraction to each other. Denial had done fuck-all to help. Acceptance with a side of anger had done even less.

He was so intensely curious about what they could be if—

 _If._

But they were in danger of smoke inhalation at the moment. Him and Leia and Salla and Chewie and even that human-shaped lump beneath her. The lump who chose that precise moment to issue a loud groan.

"The _hell_?" Brill Stone muttered.

Leia was off the conform couch in a millisecond. She stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Han, unarmed but hands up in the classic defensive pose Han himself had taught her. Han drew his blaster, waited a second until the coder found him with his eyes, and then slowly clicked the setting from _stun_ to _kill._

"Don't move," Han said, low and dangerous.

"Whoa, man," Stone said, then coughed, palms up in surrender. "Easy!"

He could kill the guy right now; it was easy to piece together what had happened in the flat. Leia had gotten the badge and Chewie had busted into the flat like the Wookiee loved to do. And Stone had triggered the disturbance net all on his own. He'd brought this down on himself. They could leave him here, restrained, and let him slowly choke to death in the smoke of his own design. No one would come to help him. No one would know what happened and no one would care.

There was really only one way in Han's mind to decide. And Leia got there first.

"How is Chewie?" Leia asked, her head turned to peer behind him. "Will he survive?"

Han didn't turn to see, still glaring at Stone and toying with the man's probability of survival. If Chewie died, Han would kill this sonofabitch without another thought—

"He's out of it," Salla's voice came through the smoke like a lantern, "but he's stable. Second-degree burns on his paw, I would say, but I can deal with those with some decent bacta. We gotta get him out of here, though."

Han brew out his breath and then immediately had to swallow back a faint irritation in his throat. "This smoke's getting thicker," he said. "What's in the disturbance net, punk?"

Stone coughed. "Rya."

Han had had enough. "Listen up, fuckwad. I've had a very rough day so if you wanna walk out of here alive, get to answering my questions."

"He did," Salla said. "Rya is a combustible respiratory irritant. Cheap and _very_ Grouka. And we're inhaling a whole hell of a lot of it."

"Give me the blaster," Leia said, reaching her hand to wrap around his forearm. "You two get him out of her. I'll cover Stone _."_

She issued a death glare to the coder and Han relinquished the blaster, satisfied that Leia was as sharp as she ever was. With a curt nod, he let go of the blaster and turned to help Salla, huddled over a still-unconscious Chewie on the far side of the room.

 _Leia and Chewie are safe._

 _Leia and Chewie are safe._

Nothing else mattered.

 _Leia and Chewie are safe._

* * *

 _Author's Note: I am currently working out of town and am not sure if I will have an update ready for you next week. I will try my hardest but please be patient with me! I do occasionally have to earn real money with my real job. :) Thank you!_


	16. Quick Exit

_Quick Exit_

* * *

Leia stepped close to Stone with Han's blaster firmly in her grasp. Slumped over the arm of the conform couch, the coder cowered: terrified but trying to hide it. Any courage he'd shown in triggering the net had disappeared; what was left was a quaking shell of a man in bad clothing. His eyes were wide, a little frantic: bouncing between the DL-44 and the duo attempting to drag a full-grown male Wookiee into …. Was that a speeder at the window?

She blinked through the smoke, eyelashes clumping together and eyes watering in the suffocating air of the flat. _Yes,_ she thought with a twinge of amusement. _A landspeeder is at the window._

Han Solo and his rescue attempts.

Rolling her eyes, she wiped a hand over her split lip and tasted bright blood and dull smoke. Her left side felt tender, not burned but razed, like she'd fallen into loose gravel. Her hair was a disaster: strands falling in her face, springing free from her braids. Cuts littered her hands where she'd shielded her face from the shrapnel. She imagined she looked pretty rough. There would be no beauty pageants or seductions in her queue anytime soon.

Thankfully her brain was as quick as her body was slow. She didn't have a clear idea of Han's plan, of what part she could play in this situation or what the hell they were going to do now that Stone had destroyed the coordinates. But she was mentally with him: ready, alert and willing to take orders until she was fully up to speed. Any confusion she might have had after the disrupter net had blown had been broken by the look of pure, fundamental panic in Han's eyes as he shook her awake. The harrowed green was like a stim shot to her spinal cord.

Even battered, Leia's mettle shined bright.

It would always shine a little brighter for Han.

"Zend?" Stone murmured to himself, interrupting the warming thought. "Is that Salla Zend over there?"

Leia turned angry eyes to Stone and tilted her head.

"Who?" she asked, sounding bored.

Stone sat up and swept his left hand in a forestalling gesture, as if to ward her off. He grimaced and coughed, held his side. Leia realized when he'd reached for the net trigger and she'd tackled him, he'd landed on a misplaced shoe.

 _Serves you right,_ Leia thought, disgusted. _Clean up after yourself, you poor excuse for a sentient being._

If she was barely hanging onto her distaste for Stone, Stone was barely hanging onto his patience with her. He seemed jittery, like a cornered animal without any real natural defensive mechanism. A toothless and clawless nexu; a Vermese without its poisoned quills.

"Salla," he bit out. "Your friend with the eyes. She works for Grouka the Hutt."

Leia lifted her eyebrows. "So do you."

Stone glared, gray eyes blazing. "Who do _you_ work for?"

Leia didn't answer, letting the man's paranoia do the work for her. Half-confirming his worst fears— that Grouka had double-crossed him, that he was now on the Hutt's bounty list—should be enough incentive to keep Stone manageable.

"Grouka?" he squeaked after a beat of silence. " _Jabba?_ "

Leia shrugged, uninterested, and let the vile name hang in the air between them as she took further inventory of her surroundings. The flat wouldn't be unrecoverable with decent smoke removal and a good deep-clean. In fact, as she looked at it now, the smoke seemed to be mostly present to trigger an alarm and allow an escape. She smelled burning circuits but saw no actual fire. The smoke made it difficult to see and to breathe; she understood that when Salla said it was Rya, she meant that it was time to _go._

Leia was impressed despite herself; whatever else Stone was, he clearly had a gift for coding and micro-engineering.

She did all her reconnaissance without turning her head, without moving any attention away from Stone, her eyes heavy and impenetrable and her voice exclusive when she said to Salla and Han: "Do we need to stim-shot our Wookiee friend?"

She heard rustling, a grunt, and then a low oath from Han. "Nah, we can get him in the backseat. Just hold onto dumbass over there."

"Will do," she answered, voice bright and cheerful. "He's not going anywhere."

" _Dumbass_?!" Stone echoed, indignant. "Who broke into whose place?"

Leia was very tempted to flip the _kill_ switch on Han's blaster to _stun_ just to shut him up. And she would have done it, too, if she thought for an instant that they were going to leave him here in the flat to slowly choke on the Rya smoke of his own creation.

But he'd seen their faces. He'd identified Salla. And if there was any possibility that he'd encoded the heaters' coordinates anywhere else, she had to keep him alive. And if Grouka sent someone to investigate the apparent house fire, Stone could not be alive to talk.

She couldn't kill him now. And if she stunned him—ostensibly for mission security but really because she hated the sound of his voice and the grating, ugly fear-confidence in his eyes— someone would have to drag him into the speeder the same way Han and Salla were dragging Chewie.

He had to be alive and he had to be conscious.

Irritated, she enlisted every ounce of venom she'd once hoarded for an exasperating Corellian pilot named Solo and scowled. "Who invited a complete stranger into their home?" she asked. "What kind of idiot, what kind of _male_ idiot, instantly trusts a woman they don't know with their life? _Dumbass_ is being generous."

Stone glared, wordless and petulant.

"Got the Wook in the speeder," Han said from the window. "What's your plan, Boss? Gonna kill the punk or bring him along?"

Leia pretended to consider the question, watching the overblown, unearned, self-stroking ego in front of her squirm, acting as a deciding executioner. She sensed vulnerability behind his mammoth confidence, different from Han's underlying goodness. When Han's vulnerability made an appearance it was a beautiful surprise. When Stone's vulnerability was prodded, would he yield similar goodness?

She very much doubted it.

"Up," she said to Stone, nodding to the window and the speeder beyond it. "Let's go, _dumbass_."

* * *

The speeder made a quick stop at the hotel landing bay for Han and Leia to clean up Chewie's surveillance equipment from the room. Salla remained at the speeder's idling controls, keeping her eyes on both the unconscious Chewie and the _very_ conscious Brill Stone. Salla seemed more than happy to have a moment alone with the coder, vengeful orange eyes bright against her dark skin.

Han and Leia's work was a mad rush: no time to wipe down surfaces of fingerprints or genetic material. They left identifying marks everywhere in the room—Han had even laid down on the bed, for Force's sake—but they didn't have time for stringent wipe-down procedures.

In her long experience of quick, life-and-death evacuations with the Alliance, Leia was sure this was one of the sloppiest.

But there was no time. The variables were outstandingly vague. Would Grouka connect Stone's disappearance with Salla's Alliance contacts? Would the Imperials? Who knew what and who had shared what with whom?

And a new pin-prick of a thought that scared Leia to her bones: _what did Jabba know?_

Was there any way that Jabba would push into the fray? With the Imperials' fist tightening and Grouka's paranoid isolationism ripped apart by not one but two of his employees falling off the grid? Would Jabba hear about Han and Chewie here on Nar Shaddaa and send his omnipresent bounty hunters to collect the smugglers?

It hadn't occurred to her to worry until Stone himself had said the name. Han had said that Jabba didn't do much business on Nar Shaddaa, but … well. Now _Jabba_ was a constant echo in Leia's ear.

If anyone tracked them to this hotel room, they would find all the proof they needed that Han Solo, Chewbacca the Wookiee, Leia Organa and Salla Zend were all currently working on the Smuggler's Moon. _Together._

That was dangerous and stupid information to let fall into enemy hands.

"This is bad," Leia said as she tossed the last comm into the huge plastex bag on the hotel bed. "This is so bad."

Han coughed by the window, collecting the small echo transmitters on the table in one huge hand. "No kidding. This is like _Luke_ level of bad planning,"

She chuckled, dark humor triggered by his utter lack of apology. "Even Luke isn't this sloppy. We're going to be tracked."

Han hummed, then stepped over to her side of the room and hefted the bag of equipment over his shoulder. "Probably," he said, grabbing her hand and leading her to the old-fashioned door at the far end of the room.

He paused, as if waiting for the door to automatically open. Leia looked up at him, arched a brow.

"It's not an auto-hatch," she murmured, amused despite herself. "Have you forgotten how to open a door?"

She reached her right palm toward the control panel and triggered the open-sequence. The door stuttered on its ancient hinges, creaking open with a low whine. Han seemed to hesitate, then shook his head and pulled her through, hand warm and tight around hers.

* * *

 _Author's Note: I am back with a short update and ready to resume a regular "Friday" posting schedule! Thank you for your patience - I am astounded by the level of support you have shown this story (and me!) during my difficult July schedule. Merci, my friends! You make the sludge of writing this complex story worth it. -KR_


	17. The Pii

_The Pii_

* * *

The speeder raced from Grouka the Hutt's neighborhood like an excitable electron, zipping through alleys and shortcuts too fast for Han to process the route. Where were they going? Han sure as hell didn't know. Salla switched lanes on a whim, dropped altitude without a moment's notice, took hairpin turns that made no sense to him. It was like a fever-dream, watching a madwoman fly in a terrifying mimicry of what he himself did to his passengers on a regular basis.

He was grateful to not be at the helm. He knew Nar Shaddaa, sure, but he didn't know it like Salla knew it. She'd been born here, raised here, had worked here for decades. She knew the lanes better than anyone else. It was in her blood the way Coronet City was in his, the way Chewie's hometree was indelibly written on the Wookiee's soul.

She was the right person to fly them out of danger. And besides: he had lots of other things to think about.

Han turned his head, looked at Chewie propped up in a sitting position next to him in the back seat. The Wookiee was still unconscious and leaning on the sack of surveillance equipment Han and Leia had taken from the hotel room, teeth bared and burned paw resting in his lap. In some ways it was easier for them to escape with Chewie unconscious; the last thing they needed was a yowling giant bringing attention to the stolen speeder filled with wanted criminals.

Easier, maybe, but Han would pay a fortune to see his best friend awake and angry.

And then Han looked at Leia in the front passenger seat. Her hair whipped around her like an electrified cloud as she struggled to rebraid it in the chaos of Salla's sprint to safety. Lithe, strong fingers swatted at airbound locks, gathering the mass into smaller, more manageable pieces. He couldn't see her face but her shoulders were tense, slightly raised, and her hands were wild, scratched and bleeding. She hadn't said a word since they'd cleaned out the hotel and that was putting him on edge, too.

Salla took a sharp left and dove into the lowest hoverlane, tipping all her passengers forward in their seats. Brill Stone swallowed a scream of terror and Han glared at the coder sitting to his right.

"I'm not gonna tell you again," Han growled. "Shut your trap or you'll be dead faster than a vrelt out an airlock."

Stone's jaw snapped tight and he glared at Han.

"Any idea where we're going?" Han asked the women, leaning forward to be heard over the rush and noise of a speeder in flight.

"Some," Salla said. "I have a friend who might help us."

Han repeated _friend?_ at the same time Leia repeated _might?,_ obvious question marks following both. In any other situation he might have laughed.

Salla gave a curt nod. "Yeah," she said.

And she left it there, careful not to give them too much information in front of Stone, careful not to make promises she couldn't keep.

"Perfect," Han muttered to himself and settled in for the ride. "That's just perfect."

* * *

Salla flew them to a neighborhood Han had never visited, an hour outside Grouka's contested limits. Back when Han had worked on Nar Shaddaa—eighteen months ago, at least, and that was long enough for things to dramatically change in this awful place—this area had been known as _Tumook Pii,_ a broad swath of homegrown Nar Shaddaan techs and pilots. In the hierarchy of people stuck in the system, these were the most fortunate: free people with marketable skills and just enough gumption to work for the big bosses but not enough wealth to leave. They were the most law-abiding population on the moon but that didn't mean much: someone would still gladly catch them in a heartbeat for a nice, fat Imperial contract and a way off this rock. Or stick 'em in the side with a vibroblade for the credits in their pockets.

Han wiped a hand over his mouth and waited with the last vestige of patience he had.

It was late afternoon; Y'Toub sank into the crests of the Brurshovv Mountains to the west, and the hoverlanes hummed with traffic. Salla's mad trek to the Pii had softened into a discreet trip home from work, blending into the mass of cheap speeders on the lanes with ease. They passed small landing bays and open cantinas, the slog of ordinary lives passing beneath their feet with a rush of thrusters and Salla's steady piloting.

"Haven't been to the Pii in years," Stone announced, as if that was the question everyone was asking themselves.

Han cocked an eyebrow. "You'll be lucky to leave it."

Stone rolled his eyes and pointed a finger at Han. "You're a real riot, man. You on the comedy circuit or—?"

Han seized the moment, wrapping Stone's finger in his hand and wrenching it upwards with a sharp _crunch_. Stone cried out in pain and jerked his hand back to his chest, glaring.

"The _fuck_ , dude? You broke my fucking finger!"

Han glared right back, remembering all the ways Stone had already screwed them over. "Keep your fucking fingers outta my face and they won't get broken."

Stone's glare turned septic, fear clearly visible beneath the anger and pain. His nose scrunched in what Han guessed was supposed to be a kind of snarl but on Stone's weasley face looked more like a grimace of pain.

"I don't like you," Stone said, eyes sparking. "You're the absolute _worst._ "

Han couldn't help the humorless laugh that came from his chest. "You haven't seen my worst, yet, pal. I'm just getting started."

"Boys," Leia interrupted. "Be quiet."

Han turned away from Stone, took in their surroundings. He'd been so focused on the scum next to him that he hadn't realized they'd slowed to a stop. The speeder idled in an alley between two enormous buildings, sheltered from the skies by a landing pad bridging the gap above them. Han tracked fourteen windows and ledges, all the kind of place snipers loved, all with the kind of open vantage point that would make them easy kills. The hoverlane at the mouth of the alley was busy, too: easy enough for someone to have tracked them. The other end of the alley backed into a durasteel wall: another building facing the next hoverlane over.

Salla hopped out of the speeder, put her hands on her hips and took a deep breath. "Prisht," she said. "I know you're watching. I need a favor."

Silence. Han shoved Stone out of the speeder, kept his blaster sights on the back of the coder's head. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Leia hop out, too, leaving Chewie and the bag of equipment in the backseat alone.

Han nudged Stone with the DL-44, urging him to stumble to Salla's side. "I don't like this," he murmured when the coder reached the other side of the speeder. "It's too open."

"Of course it is," Salla said. "I said she _might_ help us, not that she _would._ "

Leia's eyes lifted, assessing the ledges and balconies above them. "How much of a _might_ is this?"

Salla shrugged. "There's a forty percent chance she'll kill us on the spot."

Han's throat prickled. " _Forty?_ "

"Those are better odds than we had out there," Salla said. "There's a hundred percent chance our friend here triggered more than just the Rya smoke in the flat. Whoever might've been onto you before sure as hell is onto you now."

Han clenched his teeth but had to agree. Sixty percent chance of help was better than none. And with the mess they'd just left he had a difficult time believing that no one was on their tail: Grouka or the Imps or Jabba or maybe all three. Who knew what fresh horrors awaited them?

"Can we trust your friend?" Leia asked.

Salla didn't answer. Han gritted his teeth and tried not to panic. If it was just Salla and him he would've been wary but able to control himself. An injured Chewie made the stakes so much higher. And if he added Leia Organa into the picture, _well._ The whole world suddenly aimed their blasters square at her back and there was nothing he could do about it.

Seconds passed. Han's heartbeat thundered in his ears. Stone shifted, putting weight on one foot and then the other. Leia's eyes never left the balconies above them.

But Salla was still, unmoving, hands splayed at her sides and eyes trained on the durasteel wall in front of her. Eerily quiet, the sounds of traffic drifting farther and farther away from Han's ears. Time seemed to lengthen, blinks took seconds and then minutes: each breath lasted a lifetime while Han's panic grew and grew and grew.

"Leia," he muttered in warning but the sound took millennia and was so quiet he didn't recognize it as his own voice.

"Le—" he tried again. "Wha—?"

A _pop_ between his ears and Han was out in a flash, the moment before unconsciousness swallowed him whole a mess of sensory overloaded terror and the horrible knowledge that he had let his people fall into a trap.

* * *

Han awoke on a plastex pallet with a whip-crack feeling of awareness and a bright light shining in his eyes. He grunted and pushed the light away, blinking the fireworks from his vision.

"You're awake," a female voice said and it sounded way too close to his ear for comfort.

He sat up with a rush of memory. _Chewie,_ he thought. _Leia._

He was in a containment room, bright white, surrounded on all sides by plastex paneling and a spigot fused to the ceiling above him. His eyes had trouble focusing and it was among the worst of his impressive collection of hangovers: nauseated and confused, memory like a black hole and a vague sense of disappointment. His mouth tasted sweet, like ryschate.

He turned his head and a watery figure appeared next to him. The lines of her body wavered and then straightened into pale-gray skin, violet eyes and a portable luma-lamp.

 _A Chev?_ Han's blurry brain struggled to conjure the species name. _What the hell is a Chev doing here?_

"Welcome back to the world of the living," the Chev said.

Han breathed through his nose, deep breaths to try and get a handle on his nausea. When the roiling feeling passed, he narrowed his eyes. "Where are the others?"

The Chev turned off her luma-lamp and set it down on the floor. "Safe. Already awake."

The feeling of relief was like a physical jolt, awakening him further and sharpening his focus. At the very least they were alive. He could work with that, would move heaven and earth if he needed to.

"Where are we?" he asked, keeping the hope from his voice.

He didn't know this person. He didn't trust this person. But at the very least she hadn't killed them yet and that was all that mattered for the moment.

"My shop," the Chev answered. "Well, the decontamination area of my shop, at least. You and your lot were suffering from Rya poisoning. We had to take care of that first."

Han stood, legs rubbery but sure, and reached his right hand for his holster. _Empty._ "First?" he asked.

The Chev nodded. "Can you walk? I think it best if we explain this once to all of you. I don't like to repeat myself."

He took a wobbly step, locked his knees and gritted his teeth before taking another. When he felt comfortable, he nodded and followed the Chev out of the white plastex room into a dull gray hallway. Spotless durasteel passed him as they walked, clean in a way he hadn't seen in days. Not a hint of dirt or grime. And, he noted with some satisfaction, the irritation in his throat was gone.

"Who are you?" he asked as they walked. "What'd you do to us?"

The Chev stopped, whirled around to face him and stepped close. From this angle her eyes looked molten, hazy purple in a swirling current. _Dangerous._ Unstable and furious.

He took a step back.

"I do not like to repeat myself," the Chev said, venom in her words, anger in her tone.

With a violent jerk and blinding speed, she kicked her right foot into his left knee. Han fell to the ground in a graceless lump, his knee the first casualty of the fall. Pain exploded from the point of impact, rippling through his leg in waves. Not a broken bone, not a blaster burn. Just a simple defensive maneuver, the kind Leia often used: efficient and effective.

He put a hand out to steady himself and looked at the Chev, standing a meter away. Her eyes shone back at him with the peaceful, sure violet of the decontamination room. _The hell?_ he thought as he panted, waiting for the pain to subside.

"Stand and be silent," the Chev said, "and I will take you to your people."

Han exhaled, tested his knee and stood, gingerly following the Chev with silent, furious focus.


	18. Prisht

_Prisht_

* * *

Leia glared at the door, ears pricked and hands ready for whatever came through it. Friend or foe? She wasn't sure and she didn't particularly care. At this point she'd become inured to all manner of Nar Shaddaan surprises. When that door next opened it could be Darth Vader or a bounty hunter or Salla's long-lost sibling or, hell, it could be _Winter_. Her response would be the same.

 _Attack. Find Han. Get clear,_

She sighed and closed her eyes, the line of angry helplessness under her fingertips bright and blazing. She felt like she was running a fever: hot and then cold and then hot again. Like she was in the middle of a backwards metamorphosis: fundamental shifts in her soul manifesting in her body. Her self-loathing was acute and painfully wrought by the past… What was it now? Thirty-six hours? Was that how long it had been since they'd first descended the _Falcon_ 's boarding ramp into utter hell?

They were here, all of them, because of _her._ Because of her faith in the Alliance, because of her war against the Empire. Chewie and Salla and even small-minded, awkward Brill Stone.

And Han. Han, wherever he was, alone and at the mercy of whomever Salla claimed to trust, the only member of their group to be seperated this long into their internment.

Her eyes squeezed tight to blink away the sudden, angry, frustrated tears. She let the feelings surge, felt the fever and the chill consume her whole, felt like she was underwater, the surface just past the reach of her fingertips. Blame and shame and heartache overpowering, with teeth bared and hungry eyes. Something her father had told her once, about feeling the pain of one's people. Of allowing those moments of insurmountable helplessness and rage. _A leader who does not feel is not a leader, Pearl,_ he'd said.

She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and was ready.

 _Attack. Find Han. Get clear._

The bench on which Leia sat was cold, unyielding plastex projected from the wall by two durasteel clamps. The bench was too high for someone of her height to comfortably reach the floor: her feet dangled above the tiles like a child's. She kicked idly, a small rebellion against the stark quiet of their prison.

Next to her, Chewie growled wordlessly, tones and pitches that meant nothing to her. She suspected he was taking inventory of his wounds, almost completely healed now. Talking to himself as he looked at his paw—bandaged in a bacta wrap—tested his eyes and vocal cords. _Thank the Goddess,_ Leia thought. _Thank the Goddess you're alright, Chewie._

He'd been escorted into her detention room last. First had come Salla with her flight-suit top unzipped and wrapped around her hips. She wore a dirty, sweat-stained mechanic's tank top, her dark skin only accentuating the thinness of the cloth. Leia had asked her question after question, digging for answers. _Where are we? Who is holding us? Are we in danger?_ _Where is everyone else?_

All Salla had said was that she didn't want to repeat herself. She'd flashed Leia a serious, heavy look, one that clearly said _keep your mouth shut,_ and then swaggered to the far corner, crossed one scuffed boot over the other and leaned against the wall to examine her cuticles.

Next had been Stone, ranting and raving like a madman as he was pushed through the doorway so fast that Leia couldn't see who had escorted him there. The door slid shut quickly behind him and Leia was left with more questions than answers.

"Where are we?" he'd yelled. "Who is this person?"

But Salla had sent him the same intense look, brought a finger to her lips and pointed to the ceiling.

"The fuck does _that_ mean?" Stone asked, eyes wide. "I didn't _ask_ to come along on this insane ride—"

"No, you tried to kill us," Leia had interrupted him, voice deep and dangerous.

"Quiet," Salla commanded, and the word was so infused with heat and threat that Stone obeyed.

The detention room had settled into silence again, impatience etched into each of the three captives like scars. Leia's anxiety ticked notch after notch, growing in power as the seconds turned to minutes, and minutes into hours.

The next time the door opened, it had brought a genuinely blessed sight to Leia's eyes. "Chewie," she'd breathed, hopping down from the bench and rushing to meet the Wookiee in the middle of the room.

 _Little Princess,_ he'd growled.

He'd put his unbandaged paw on her shoulder, pulled her into his side with kind, gentle insistence and then walked her back to her place on the bench.

"Are you okay?" she had asked as he settled beside her, short of breath and with a soft grunt.

 _Recovering,_ he'd said.

"Have you seen Han? Do you know where he is?"

 _No,_ he'd growled. _I was taken from a recovery room and brought here. I have not seen Cub._

Leia had pressed her hand into Chewie's side, leaned into his bulk like a child seeking comfort. And, she'd realized, she might have been exactly that. "Where are we?"

"He doesn't know," Salla had said from the corner. "Be quiet."

Chewie's head had whipped to look at Salla, his eyes narrowed and fierce. _Do not speak to Little Princess like that,_ he rumbled.

But Salla shook her head, pointed at the ceiling again, and held her tongue.

More time passed. Unease flew from being to being as the minutes stretched by, frayed and torn. Leia couldn't be sure how long it had been since Salla had first been brought into the room—there was no timekeeping mechanism in the cell—but it felt like deliberate torture. Four of them waiting for the fifth. Not allies, really: certainly not in Stone's case. But the group waiting on bated breath for news of the other.

For news of _Han._

She pressed her lips together and refocused on the door. Han would come through it at any moment. He _would._ There was nothing in this universe that would keep him away from this room if he was alive. Salla was here. Chewie was here.

Leia was here.

What a terrifying notion that was. To admit that she meant something to someone else, that she meant something to _Han._ To understand at a fundamental level that her health and safety meant more to him than his own. He'd proved it again and again, charging into dangerous situations he had no business in. Flying out of a slave hovel, fresh from sleep, because he couldn't find her inside. Rushing to the flat when Stone had triggered the net, eyes so worried she would have thought it had been the _Falcon_ in danger, not the last princess of Alderaan.

She knew Han would find her, would risk everything to stand by her side to face their enemies headlong. She was no damsel to be rescued. She was a kind of partner, like Chewie. But different, too, because the friendship between captain and copilot had been established by the rich danger of trench warfare, of risking their lives on payouts and a criminal enterprise that funded a starbound freedom they both needed. A trust forged in death and despair. Utility and a safe kind of brotherly affection, because one needed the other for survival.

But Leia was not that. She was dangerous to Han Solo, a siren call to goodness and commitment from which he should have walked shortly after Yavin. She was baggage and rebellion, complicated beyond any conceivable measure. And he kept coming back, time and time again, as helpless to abandon her as she was to give up on his hidden decency. There was no real reason for this connection to exist outside of―

And she knew its name with dull certainty. She knew the reason for the connection. It was love. Honest and pure and trapped in a storm of ego and inhuman courage. _Love._ He loved her. _Permanence range_ love, like Chewie had tried to tell her. Only it hadn't seemed real until this moment, until she'd realized that the person she wanted to walk through that door was the man she loved, too. The reason he could hurt her so completely, the origin of the tremors of panic that rocked her body at the thought of any harm coming to him... It was love.

The door hissed open and Leia did not wait for the flash of green eyes or the relieved twist in full, beautiful lips. She launched herself from the bench, her body _knowing_ who it was before her mind did, six long strides to reach the human at the door and a seventh to step entirely into his arms. Rising to the balls of her feet, trapped entirely in his embrace, she wrapped her arms around his neck, clutched the back of his shirt in her fists and breathed him in, the safety of his chest and throat overwhelming and needed _._ With a bend of his knees he lifted her off the floor and tucked his face into her hair, whispered _Leia_ like he couldn't say it enough: _Leia, Leia, Leia._

Like the rupture of a river dike, the walls burst and the terror of the past day flooded her system. She shook, inexplicably overwrought, felled by her own need for control. She had known the flood would overtake her eventually; there'd been no time to decompress after the flat and war had taught her how to compartmentalize in the best/worst way possible.

"What took you so long?" she asked into the sweat-dry skin of his throat.

He laughed against her, quiet and private, and shook his head.

"You okay?" he asked, voice hushed. For her ear only, so close to his mouth, the words important but unnecessary at the same time. "Are you hurt?"

"She is fine," a stark voice answered him. "Sit."

Han stiffened, turned his head away from Leia and then set her down on her feet. Leia peered around his frame, catching the eye of a gray-skinned, violet-eyed Chev standing in the doorway. The Chev blinked once, expression unreadable, and then narrowed her eyes.

"I do not like to repeat myself," she said.

Han stepped back, threw his hands wide and pushed Leia behind him protectively. "Hey now," he said. "I got it."

"What—?" Leia began but was immediately overtaken by Salla, forgotten in the corner, as the smuggler pushed off the wall and walked to the Chev.

"Lay off them, Prisht," Salla said.

Leia glanced at the females in the middle of the room, then at Han, then at Chewie. With a faint feeling of bewilderment, she allowed Han to pull her back to the bench, settled between him and Chewie without a word, testing the anxiety in the room around them.

"Salla Zend," the Chev said. "It is good to see you safe."

Salla nodded but didn't otherwise speak. Leia's discomfort sparked, clean and cold, and if it hadn't been for Chewie's heavy paw on her shoulder she would have stood and demanded answers.

But Han and Chewie's silence was enough of an impetus. She'd wait. For now, at least.

"We have decontaminated each of you," the Chev said, addressing the room at large. "Rya can produce strange toxifications in the blood and the Wookiee had a significant burn on its paw."

" _His,_ " Leia hissed.

The room shifted too quickly for Leia to comprehend it. The Chev took a step forward, Salla stepped to block her progress and Han threw his arm in front of Leia's body as if forestalling an attack. Leia recoiled, not because of the Chev but because of the sudden tension unleashed in the room. What did they know? Why was everyone reacting like she'd committed a mortal sin?

"Quiet," Han whispered to her under his breath. "Just wait."

Leia looked to him in surprise and then turned to face the Chev again, watching as Salla stood stock-still before them all, acting as guardian in front of an enemy.

"Do you recognize her? Huh?" Salla asked, quiet and sure. "Leia Organa?"

The Chev blinked, eyes flipping to Leia and then back to Salla.

Salla continued. "Of the Rebel Alliance. You do not want to hurt her."

The Chev's stillness was unnerving, silence surrounding her like a cloak. Leia was struck by Salla's stance, her upraised arms, her body in silhouette against the Chev's form. _Why are you so afraid, Salla?_

"The bounty on her is large, my love," the Chev said.

 _My love?_ Leia's eyes met Han's, head whipping in his direction like a blaster bolt. Han pressed his lips together, shrugged and turned back to the center of the room.

Salla did not move, did not lower her arms, stood strong. "She is _mistryka,_ Prisht. She fights for the slaves. I repeat: _you do not want to hurt her."_

The Chev's eyes settled on Salla, violet and hard: investigatory.

Seconds ticked by, one by one, silent and steady as six beings held their collective breath.

 _Mistryka?_ Leia couldn't place the word; couldn't even place the language. _Rebel? Royalty?_

 _Traitor?_

 _What did Salla mean by mistryka?_

But then the Chev's shoulders relaxed and her face lost the terseness of the moment before. The change was astounding: suddenly the Chev was not a predator. Suddenly she was a sentient woman, her mind settled, her questions answered.

Salla's arms lowered and the smuggler stepped aside, blowing out her breath between pursed lips.

" _Mistryka,_ " the Chev murmured, eyeing Leia with spectacular interest. "Come, all of you. Follow me."

She turned on her heel and the door opened again. Han, Chewie and Leia stood and Stone stepped closer to the group, all hesitant to follow the Chev. And then Salla stepped to them, whispered _trust me,_ and led them through the door.

A hallway, long and sterile, so narrow they could only walk two beings side-to-side at a time. Leia hung back, waited until she was standing in back of the group with Salla.

"What does _mistryka_ mean?" Leia whispered as they trundled along the hallway.

Salla glanced at her, quick as lightning, and then turned back to face the group ahead of them. Her mouth was a narrow, lipless line.

"Another time," Salla murmured. "Prisht does not like to repeat herself."


	19. The Distributary

_The Distributary_

* * *

Prisht led the group to a large room resembling an Alliance land base hangar during a relatively-organized evacuation. It was an enormous space with a cavernous ceiling, bustling and alive: method and productivity in every step. A vast array of beings hurried from one wall to the other, carrying cargo crates or steering hover-carts full of engineering components, valuable materials, even spice. Back and forth they traveled, entering from a loading dock on one side of the room and exiting through one of seven narrower docks on the other side. Unfamiliar, almost organic-looking hatches irised with the swing of a hand, paw, tentacle or digit. Serious expressions lit their faces but they were without the panic of rebel evacs, without the twitch of life-and-death in the set of their shoulders.

Han sat in a rickety chair on one side of a perfectly drawn circle of similar chairs, watching the activity around him with a critical eye. He felt uncomfortable and it took him a moment to realize why. The space around him buzzed with activity but no one spoke a word. The hum of hover-carts, the crashes of metal rigs against metal rigs, the _whoosh_ of the docking doors opening and closing... all were an active part of the scene.

But no one made a sound in communication. No shouted orders, no curses as one hover-cart rammed into another. No friendly shop-talk. Nothing.

 _Eerie,_ Han thought but kept his mouth shut.

This place looked like an atypical smuggler's haunt, a place to meet and greet subcontractors or to distribute a payload to several clients at once. He'd been to a few of the Hutt-controlled waystations in his smuggling career, paid their exorbitant fees for services he needed in a pinch: refueling, replacing a blown fuse or two, buying edibles and coolant. He didn't frequent them often; they were about as safe as Mos Eisley and one was just as likely to get shivved as he was to get refueled.

But the easy aura of business and mutual exploitation one felt at Hutt waystations was noticeably absent here. These people worked like employees, not independent traders. No jovial jokes hurled through the air, no casual references to grand escapades. _Nothing._

 _Eerie_ was being polite. This place was downright _creepy._

"Where are we?" Brill Stone asked as he flopped into the chair on Han's left. "Why aren't they talking?"

"Because they are not allowed to talk," Prisht answered. "I prefer quiet."

The Chev did not sit, choosing instead to stand at the only opening in the circle of chairs, her tall, thin body closing her five guests in a chair-bracketed prison. Han eyed the others in their group, noting their various responses to the strangeness of the scene. Salla lifted a boot to rest on the lip of her chair and wrapped her arms around her knee with irreverence. Chewie's chair was too small for him; his legs shot from the seat into the center of the circle like the roots of a tree. Stone sat on his hands—a stupid choice: if he cared, Han would have warned him to keep his hands free in enemy territory—and looked over one shoulder, twisting to watch the loading dock behind him.

And Leia sat next to Han, primly folded into a straight-backed, no-nonsense pose in silence. Toes pressed into the heavy metal plating at their feet, spine rigid as a Verpine's. Her eyes were cool and her jaw was tight.

 _I'm listening,_ her body said _. But you have to_ earn _my trust._

There was a world of significance in that pose and Han knew it very well. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs at the ankles in front of him and slapped his hands on his thighs.

 _Go get 'em, sweetheart._

"Why don't you want them to talk?" Stone asked. "Are they your slaves or—?"

Han threw him a warning glare, interrupting with a harsh exhale. "Shut up, dumbass."

Stone shrugged. "I'm just asking. The people here are acting like … automatons. Or like they're brainwashed. It's weird."

Han cringed, but it was Salla who beat him to the punch. "Shut _up_."

The coder turned hurt eyes on them, from Han to Salla and back again. "I'm just asking a question. Don't get your balls in a wad."

Han flipped his hands over, palms up on his legs. "You have nine more fingers I can break," he reminded Stone.

The younger man tossed a dirty look Han's way but before Han could reach for him, Leia placed a hand on his leg and forestalled his rude gesture.

" _Quiet_ ," Leia murmured, and Han let it drop, settling into his chair as Leia's hand withdrew.

"I am Prisht," the Chev said as if she had not heard their conversation. Her syllables fell into a gravelly ripshod of consonants heralded by one lone, rolling _R._ "Welcome to The Distributary."

 _The Distributary?_ Han almost echoed. He stopped himself, the memory of Prisht's boot in his knee painful and long-serving.

He settled for a quick glance at Leia.

"What is the nature of the work you do here?" she asked, voice unhurried. Stately.

Prisht's expression reflected Leia's calm and Han admired how the princess could read the room and defuse tension with just the tone of her voice.

"We are a trader's underground," the Chev said. "A safe haven. A tariff-free, Hutt-free, Imperial-free distribution enterprise. Independent traders are carefully selected and sworn into our network by nature of their discretion and their reliability. Shipments can be held here for a standard month if a trader's credit is strong enough. Traders can liquidate their shipments, too, if certain criteria are met. We are, quite simply, a base of operations for our shipping partners on the wrong side of the current law."

Han turned to look at the hangar again, at the brutal efficiency of the system, the droid-like nature of the work. _Free trader_ was often used as a euphemism for _smuggler_ or _pirate,_ and with the current political climate, that meant anyone who didn't hold an Imperial contract. It also meant lonely, creditless, desperate people simply trying to survive in the galaxy. There was a reason the Imps had gone after the Smuggler's Guild here on Nar Shaddaa; besides the Alliance there were few groups of people who so openly operated outside of the law.

But desperate people tend to be angry people, and there was no hint of anger here. Where was the bumbling drunk he found at every waystation he'd ever visited? Where were the blasterfights over cargo or the hired entertainment promising carnal distractions from the misery of the smuggling profession?

 _Would have been nice to hold Jabba's spice here while the_ Falcon _was being hunted,_ Chewie growled.

Han had to agree. The nature of smuggling was dangerous: an ally with secure enclosures to keep hot shipments safe would have made their pre-Alliance work much easier. Like a holding cell for cargo, a safe place to rent when things got really tough, when the Imps were on their tail.

A thought, one that came to him with the smallest twinge of resentment: "Hey, Sal. I could have used this information a little earlier," he said. "Ops base? Secure and Imp-free? Why didn't you tell me about it?"

Salla turned unsympathetic eyes on him. "What didn't you understand about _discretion_ and _reliability,_ Slick _?"_

Han winced but didn't reply.

"Besides, you had disappeared by the time Prisht first contacted me," Salla continued. "And I wasn't exactly feeling generous towards you, if you'll remember."

Her words were hard but Salla's expression was not. Her lips curved in a tight smile, her eyes almost playful. Discomfort lay below the surface of the words, of course. He didn't expect his various poor behaviors on Salla's behalf would be erased because of one apology. But it was nice to see a tentative joke lobbied his way by an ex. It was nice to feel like there was an understanding even closer to the surface than the resentment.

"We are underground?" Leia asked, bringing the conversation back to order.

Prisht paused, then offered a curt nod. "Yes. You are astute, _mistryka_."

Han frowned, tried to make the same leap in logic Leia had made and ignore the nervous flutter in his stomach every time he heard that word. He didn't want to ask what it meant, though he had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with Salla's interest in the hotel room door. He wanted to ask Leia what it meant first. Compare notes. Get on the same page. Because if it was anything like what he thought it _might be,_ they had to figure some shit out.

So he focused on the question at large. Since awakening from his decontamination, he'd been moved from one room to another with no indicator that they were below the surface of Nar Shaddaa.

But he didn't want to risk further bodily injury from the Chev by asking a repetitive question _,_ so he pressed his memory farther into the past. He thought about the moments just before he'd lost consciousness beside the stolen speeder in the Pii. He remembered the walls of the alley, the tall mudbricked behemoth confines on each side. He remembered the balconies above them, one above another, endless potential sniper ledges. Remembered Salla's clear entreaty to Prisht, though he couldn't see any comm or cam equipment.

 _I know you're watching. I need a favor._

It clicked, the logic clear. "The alley drops into here, doesn't it? Through that bay door?"

He pointed to the larger entrance, the one on the far end of the hangar. A speeder would easily fit through it and being underground seriously lessened the possibility of Hutt or Imperial discovery.

"That's genius," he continued. He didn't try to hide his admiration. "The alley's some kind of illusion, huh? Like a cloaking device for the bay doors on the ground? The buildings around it are berths for your … uh … partners' ships?"

Prisht made a scratching sound deep in her throat, a clear indication of distress. Han tensed, realizing he had just requested a confirmation of what Leia had already surmised. He held up his hands, raised his eyes to the Chev, tried to defuse the tense situation with his most diplomatic expression.

Leia made it look so easy.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "You don't like repeating yourself."

The Chev held her stony-eyed look for a moment longer, then visibly relaxed, the atmosphere lightening with an inhale and the settling of the violet in her eyes.

"I accept your apology without violent equanimity," she said. "And your postulation is accurate. Various shell organizations own the property around the main chute—rather, they own the airspace around it—and I have invested heavily in light-distorting technology to mask the comings and goings of my partners' craft."

"You own the Pii?" Stone asked.

Prisht narrowed her eyes but nodded. "Enough of it to guarantee privacy."

"That's _wild,_ " Stone said, eyes cutting to Han. "Don't you think that's cra—"

But Leia's voice overtook Stone's, obviously sensing that Prisht would consider his words disrespectful. But what she said surprised Han so much that his jaw dropped.

"Were you a slave?"

Han flinched, head snapping to his right. What was she thinking, asking a potentially dangerous person—one he did not trust despite her brilliance and the smooth, odd operation she ran here—such a sensitive question? The _last_ thing he wanted to do was talk about Chev slavery when they were at the mercy of one.

Most people knew only one thing about the Chev: they were enslaved. On their homeworld of Vinsoth, the Chev were the ancestral property of the Chevin. It was so rare to see one offworld, in fact, that Han had only known Prisht's species because of her violet eyes, a feature that was often used on Vinsoth as a defense for the institutional legality of slavery. He'd heard it whispered in the halls of Carida, on the lips of the scum that were beating Chewie when they'd first met.

 _If the Chevin can take slaves based on eye color, why can't we—?_

Disgust rolled in his stomach at the very thought. Justification for taking away freedom from sentient beings. It made him sick.

That did not mean that Leia should bring it up to their host. In fact, he had been hoping no one would pick up the thread of Stone's earlier question. Leave it alone and get out alive. That had been what he'd been hoping for.

But Leia obviously had different plans. And if he'd chosen to trust her in some ways, he sure as hell should trust her in all of the others, too. Aside from being stubborn and a little too argumentative, she hadn't been the cause of their worst problems on this mission: _he_ had been.

And so he made a very real, very concerted effort to trust Leia, even as his stomach pitched and rolled.

"Yes, I was a slave in my youth," Prisht said without a single note of self-consciousness. "The Chevin who owned my mother and me took us offworld when I was nearing adulthood. I escaped. My mother did not."

Leia nodded but did not reply, and Han realized she had made a deliberate effort to not interrupt the Chev, to honor her autonomy in their discussion. _You knew all along, didn't you, Princess?_

He shook his head in wonder.

"I found work on a shipping lane doing menial labor. Once I had saved enough to buy a ship, I bought one. Then another. And then I saved to buy land from Gris on this moon."

Salla waited until it was obvious Prisht had finished her sparse explanation, then offered another insight. "Prisht helps keep people out of the business of Hutts and Imps, people who enslave others. She finds them … problematic."

Leia nodded. "And you treated us for the Rya poisoning because you recognized us? From the Alliance?"

It was a fair guess. The Alliance had used Leia in enough of its grassroots propaganda campaigns to make her instantly recognizable to most beings in the galaxy. That is, if they hadn't _already_ known who she was from her time as a Coreworld senator. If anyone could be granted aid by a former slave on sight, it would be Leia.

"No," Prisht said, the gravel in her voice thick. "No Alliance has ever helped me. I treated you because I treated Salla Zend and it would have been foolish to kill you before I knew who you were."

"Why haven't you killed us? Now that you know who we are?" Stone asked.

Prisht swung her eyes to Stone, sitting sullen in his chair with his hands beneath his thighs. " _Your_ fate, I have not decided."

Stone's face turned ashen gray. He swung pleading eyes to Han and Han gleefully shrugged, projecting nonchalance to Stone's utter terror. He knew Leia would still try to use Stone to recover the heaters if at all possible, but Han was nursing a strong desire to deck the guy. Reveling in his fear seemed like a nice compromise for the moment.

But Prisht was not done. "The Wookiee receives my good faith because his people are also enslaved."

 _Good for me,_ Chewie grumbled, and Han fought a laugh.

"Salla Zend has vouched for this man," the Chev continued, gesturing to Han. "And the female is _mistryka._ I see no reason to harm any of you. I will provide you shelter for the night and you will leave in the morning."

"You are very generous, Madame Prisht," Leia said. "May we keep young Mr. Stone with us until you decide what to do with him?"

The Chev's mouth drew into a straight line, her violet eyes clouding into a mottled, stormy lavender. Han's hackles rose and he threw a hand to clasp Leia's wrist. He didn't care if Prisht had saved them all and had a truly traumatic history: his worldview had shrunk to the safety of his people and all else didn't matter.

Or had his worldview _expanded_? Chewie would certainly say so. Han himself didn't care to think on it much.

But he'd seen the angry violet in the Chev's eyes before, and he would not let Leia be hurt by _anyone,_ even their half-hearted savior. Not while he was sitting here, at least.

"Prisht," Salla said from across the circle: a warning.

Like _deja vu,_ the scene in Leia's decontamination room returned to Han: Salla's intercessions on Leia's behalf, the way she'd stood between the Chev and her intended victims. The same tension hung in the air, potent, virulent. Han itched for his empty holster, fingers twitching on Leia's wrist.

Then the Chev's eyes settled, the storm dissipated. Like a communal exhale, the group relaxed, sensing Prisht's assent.

"Of course," she murmured. "Of course. Let me show you to your quarters for the night."


	20. The Suite

_The Suite_

* * *

Leia brushed an index finger over the thin coverlet and pressed her lips together as she examined their safe haven for the night. Decorated in the ubiquitous dull gray of Prisht's underground enterprise, there was little room for comfort. Two circular bunk rooms, connected by the smallest land-based fresher Leia had ever seen, and with one door she suspected might be locked from the outside. A pillow and blanket on each bunk, an all-in-one cleaning solution for the shower, five ration bars on a bare, low table.

And that was it. Leia hid a grimace.

Prisht had called their temporary quarters a _suite_. Leia hadn't dared to contradict her. The agreement they had made felt tenuous enough without offending their host's hospitality. Prisht's gesture was kind and she was terrifying at best; there was no need to pick a fight.

But this was not a suite. And there were only four beds for the five members of their party. There was sparse and then there was _this._

"Not much for decorating, is she?" Han said as he prowled around the suite. He reminded Leia of a giant in a room of small objects, careful of his steps and eyes wary. "Four bunks. Who's sleeping on the floor?"

Salla's voice echoed through the suite's second room. "I slept in a chair last night for you guys. I'm getting my own bed and I'm willing to kick in some teeth if I have to."

"That's fair," Han muttered.

Leia nodded, her mind racing. "Chewie needs a bunk of his own," she said.

Chewie's growl was equally soft. _I would appreciate the rest. My paw is not yet healed._

"Yeah," Han said and brushed a hand over his mouth. "And I'd like to make Stone suffer—"

"—wouldn't we all?" Salla interrupted from the doorway, long limbs bracing against the overhang.

Han's eyes glinted in amusement. "—but I'm pretty sure he's already asleep on one of the bunks in the other room."

"That's an affirmative," Salla confirmed. "He conked out about ten seconds after he did the bunk math."

Leia was unsurprised. "Of course he did."

Bril Stone's modus operandi seemed to be rabid opportunism with a flair for quick, easy, female companionship. And because she knew his type—despised his type, in fact—she also knew that since she'd embarrassed him in his flat, he wasn't going to be easy to manipulate into giving her the coordinates to the heaters. Men like him didn't respond well to humiliating circumstances; fragility undercut his ravenous sexual appetite, entitlement as obvious as cheap cologne in a small turbolift. Such men lashed out when embarrassed by a woman. She'd seen it often enough in her time in the Imperial senate. She knew the type.

That was why she'd opted for a domineering attitude. Placating wouldn't work, being pleasant wouldn't work. Whatever slight affection he had for the Alliance would pale in the shadow of his embarrassment. Stone would die on the sword of his own ego and there was nothing she could do about it. Better to show strength: better to have a heavy hand.

Leia closed her eyes, took a deep breath. Her exhaustion colored the edges of her vision, a haze she hadn't realized she'd been fighting. They all needed sleep; Dodonna's oft-mocked _Rules in the Field_ clearly stated that a tired or hungry or injured soldier was a vulnerable soldier. They were all far below optimal shape but they could not afford to be vulnerable. Their mission was only going to get harder from here, of that she was absolutely sure.

"I'll take the floor," Han said, interrupting her thoughts with a gruff finality.

 _Of course you would,_ she thought, charmed by his ready chivalry and the offense he'd take if she ever called it that. "No. The bunk is wide enough; we can share."

It wouldn't be the first time they'd shared a bed, or a sleeping roll, or a modestly-comfortable ditch. She'd lost her squeamishness with sleeping beside Han Solo right around the time they'd found refuge on a muddy river bank after their near-drowning on Karthage. And, too, he'd earned her trust. To force him to sleep on the floor after all he'd done for her? Ridiculous.

Her mind flipped back to her dream of the night before, the tangible, visceral feeling of arms and lips and tongue, sighs in her ear, the tornado-thrill excitement of being new to another person. _Leia,_ she heard, like a phantom song, and she fought valiantly against the ready shivers induced by one word.

 _It's not that kind of bed-sharing, Leia,_ she reminded herself. _Calm down._

Han eyed her carefully, eyes searching. She matched his gaze, trying to communicate that her courage had not disappeared since her furious hug of two hours before, that she remained committed to the opportunities afforded by a more congenial relationship. Wherever that led, whatever monumental change that signified, she was ready for it.

She hadn't lost her nerve as the danger receded. She was damn well sure it wasn't going anywhere.

He found whatever it was he was looking for in her eyes, gave her a quick, lopsided smile, and turned to examine the fresher, bootsteps loud on the tile. "I've seen roomier quarters in Imperial detention centers," he said.

She had to agree, though she noted with interest Han's use of the plural _._ "As long as no one tries to kill us in our sleep, I'm perfectly happy," she said.

Han turned back to her, tossed a look behind him toward the second room where Stone slept. "Wouldn't be too confident of that," he muttered.

"You think we need to watch him?" Salla asked, arms crossed and hair bursting from her bun.

Han shrugged. "I think I wouldn't trust that idiot farther than I can throw him."

Leia lifted her chin and nodded, accepting his assessment. Stone was the only member of their group who had not agreed to cooperate of his own free will. He was her prisoner for all intents and purposes. It had been _her_ idea to seduce him at _The_ _Rough Shod;_ it had been _her_ idea to bring him with them after the disrupter net had blown.

He was her responsibility.

"I'll stand watch," she said. "Get some sleep, Han. You look like you're about to keel over."

His head whipped to look at her, eyes ruthless. Leia felt examined. " _Me?_ " he said, index finger at his chest. "I'm fine."

She rolled her eyes. "You're barely standing up straight. Know when you're beat, hotshot."

"Me?" he said again.

"Yes. You."

"I didn't get knocked on my ass by an explosion today," he countered. "Know when _you're_ beat, Highness."

It was like coming home, this back-and-forth. Han and Leia had been volleying accusations since the moment they'd met, razor sharp tongues ablaze for the other. Some important mechanism in the universe spun its gears and churned out playful arguments and name-calling in times of anxiety: she didn't know _how_ or _why,_ but it did. It helped to have someone respond to stress the same way she did. They'd survived terrors most beings couldn't imagine and maintained the spirit of happy contention throughout. Wasn't that a kind of miracle in and of itself?

" _Hell,"_ Salla muttered. "You two are making me sick."

Han and Leia turned twin narrow-eyed warnings to Salla, which she promptly disregarded with a shrug.

"Do us all a favor: just fuck and get it all over with."

 _But not now,_ Chewie helpfully added. _I do not want to be in the room when you do._

Leia scowled, a rare, immediate blush rising from her neck to engulf her face in flame. Han threw an outraged look at the Wookiee, betrayal written all over his face, nose scrunched in a playful snarl. Ludicrous, but she found his expression all the more endearing for its impotence.

"You keep laughing, pal, and see where it gets you," he said.

She watched the two stare each other down, human and Wookiee in an unspoken battle. Embarrassed but amused, she turned in time to see Salla's knowing look directed her way. Unlike proper Alderaanian protocol, the smuggler didn't show any concern about being caught staring and instead raised her eyebrows in direct challenge.

Leia cleared her throat and turned away.

 _To be fair, Cub: Salla Zend is not wrong,_ Chewie rumbled, the first to concede. The Wookiee dropped into one of the threadbare bunks; the mattress beneath him groaned as his full weight settled into the frame.

"They're _never_ wrong," Han muttered, grimacing.

"Damn right," Salla said as Leia whispered: "What was your first clue?"

Chewie continued as if they hadn't spoken. _And as for the other problem, I suggest we take shifts watching the cretin. Everyone needs rest._

Leia couldn't argue with him. Chewie's heavy sigh as he extended his limbs, the slight droop to Han's careful, worried eyes, the way Salla's voice held too much anxiety beneath her words… all were ample evidence. They were exhausted from a day that had far exceeded their expectations.

"I'll take first watch," Salla said, pushing off the wall. "I'm awful at waking up on time without a chrono anyway."

A dry laugh, humorless, from Han's chest. "I remember," he said, his voice echoing across the suite. Then he lowered it to address his copilot. "Chewie, you're exempt. Sleep off your burns."

Leia noted with interest that there was no remaining outrage in Han's voice, that Chewie's dig at his relationship with Leia had done little but trigger another practical conversation. Perhaps Han had had some kind of reckoning with himself, too.

That felt oddly comforting to Leia. She didn't feel the sting of embarrassment quite as acutely as she had at first. She knew Salla better now, knew her sense of humor and that the spirit with which she conducted business was very different from Leia's own. Sex to Salla wasn't as taboo as Han and Leia were making it out to be; in a way, Leia could understand why their behavior seemed odd.

And she understood Chewie better now, too. She understood the friendship between the captain and first mate in a way she hadn't before. Their conversation in _The Rough Shod_ had been illuminating to Leia, but Chewie had been living with these truths longer than she had. Was it any wonder he found humor in their behavior?

 _You do not have to tell me twice, C_ hewie growled and swung his feet from the floor to hang off the end of the bunk.

Salla looked to Han. "Gimme three hours," he said.

"Got it. Have fun." She gave them a quick grin and disappeared into the fresher.

And then there was _quiet._

Time seemed to settle, then, between Salla's departure and Chewie's soft breathing. The air grew warmer, degree by degree, as Han turned to look at her. He looked unsure: wary. A little out of his depth, his eyes running across hers like he was mining for truth.

Awkward but determined, she stared back.

"That leaves you and me," he said.

"You and me," she agreed.

He frowned, threw a hand to rub the back of his neck, looked hesitant.

So she took the reins. "Han, really. It's okay."

"Yeah, no, I know. It's just … what Salla said—"

Leia pressed her lips together. She understood his hesitance; she understood that he needed her to tell him with explicit confidence that it was okay to approach her. As if this were any time to begin a sexual relationship with him, as if she ever thought for a millisecond that he would propose such an arrangement _now,_ with Chewie in the room.

"They were kidding," she murmured and held out her hand. "Come to bed, Han."

Han eyes closed and he swallowed, his hand dropping from his neck. When he next opened his eyes, his old bravado was back, sewn by hand into the rough-hewn edges of his soul.

"Been waiting a long time to hear those words from you, princess," he said, quick smile tugging his lips upward.

" _Leia,"_ she corrected him.

He walked to the bunk, sat down, set his elbows on his knees and looked to her. "Okay," he said. "Leia."


	21. Clay

_Clay_

* * *

Han was under no illusions about the sleeping arrangements.

He knew what would happen if he took Leia up on her offer to share a bed: nothing. Nothing emotional, nothing romantic. No crossing of new frontiers, no great leap forward in physical boundaries. Of that he was absolutely certain. Practical survival: that was it.

They needed rest. They needed to shut down and reboot before they made the kind of mistake that they couldn't fix. And considering the mountain of mistakes they'd already made on Nar Shaddaa, the bar was set incredibly low. Humanoids required sleep to function and they damn well had to function to get out of here alive.

 _It's just sleeping,_ he thought, annoyed. _You've slept with her before._

But his mind swung backward in time, remembering exhausted, panting nights alone in his bunk, Had imagined enormous, brown eyes looking up at him from a crouched position between his legs, red lips surrounding the hardness she herself had commanded with an innocent look or gesture. He'd heard breathy whimpers that didn't exist, had conjured impossible fantasies to find the spare, sprawling peace he couldn't find in reality. He'd seen her above him, below him: in the shower, against a wall: standing, kneeling: playful, aggressive, sweet: familiar and new. Countless ways of expressing how much he wanted her, all in the safety of his mind.

He'd readily dismissed it as de facto behavior, figured everyone found the same relief when pitted against the towering, unintentional sensuality of Leia Organa. He'd never felt badly about it and it had never interfered with his ability to work with her on missions. They'd shared beds before. It was nothing different from sharing a bed with Luke or Chewie. Survival. That was it.

So why did it feel different now?

 _No funny business,_ he demanded of himself. _She trusts you to keep yourself under control and you're damn well gonna follow orders._

Leia shifted beside him, looking straight ahead as he leaned into his hands and rubbed his eyes. His brain was firing on one cylinder and that one cylinder had nothing to do with survival or practical cooperation. He felt sluggish, off his game: felt like he was inevitably going to ruin whatever silent ceasefire they'd managed to negotiate.

He'd never seriously worried about his ability to separate fantasy from reality before. But he was tired enough to do it now and it scared the hell out of him. For whatever reason—be it exhaustion or nerves or too long away from his ship—he was fucking annihilated by the thought of screwing this up again. And it was of no surprise to him that Leia sensed it.

"Why are you so nervous, Han?" she murmured, voice hushed to avoid waking Chewie.

"I'm not nervous," he said without a thought, so stupidly contradictory when it was obvious he _was_ nervous. He hadn't taken his boots off, hadn't sat back on the bed, hadn't said a damn word to her except _okay_ and her name. That wasn't like him and it was painfully obvious to them both.

The nights alone haunted him, the fantasies that started _just like this_. Oh, one bed? For us both? What a poorly-invented excuse to kiss the woman of his dreams. And now that the situation eerily resembled the ones he'd concocted on those lonely nights, he wasn't sure he could trust himself not to fuck it up magnificently. The last thing he wanted to do was say something to set them back. He _liked_ the comfort she seemed to take from him. He _liked_ having her trust. He _liked_ being on the same side.

 _It's more than that,_ he thought. _You admitted it to yourself. Hell, you admitted it to_ Salla.

He loved her, was in love with her. He knew it. _Everyone_ knew it. The only one who hadn't seemed to get the memo was—

Leia cleared her throat and reached for his clasped hands. "I never thought I'd say this to you, but you're overthinking this."

"Overthinking?" he echoed with a soft laugh. " _Me?_ "

"I'm just as surprised as you are," she said. "Stop thinking and lie down."

He blinked but couldn't move, certain she hadn't meant to sound so enticing. Fantasy-Leia said things to pull him to her. Reality-Leia was tired and wanted to go to sleep. He had only himself to blame for the discrepancy.

"Would it help if I apologized to you?" she asked into his silence.

His head whipped toward her, his nervousness evaporated in the spell of one heartbeat. "What?"

She licked her lips, furrowed her brow: hesitating. Han had no idea what she would be apologizing _for._ Leia might have been a little too gung-ho the past few days but that was hardly a character flaw in the Alliance. Truth be told, he loved that she took risks, loved that she was headstrong and independent. She scared the living hell out of him, sure, but he fucking _adored_ her for it.

Her hand slipped from his and she straightened her spine.

"I knew you were listening when I kissed Stone," she admitted, eyes big and concerned. "I didn't know how else to distract him from Chewie outside the flat, but … I knew you would hear it."

He froze, breathless. An unspoken rule had been broken with those words, and they both knew it.

"You kissed him to make me jealous?" he asked, paring down to the heart of the matter.

Jealousy wasn't allowed. To be jealous, one had to have rights that Han and Leia didn't have to one another. He could jerk off to her likeness all he wanted, but it didn't change the fact that she did not belong to him. And she could watch him interact with Salla with flashes of heat in her eyes, but he did not belong to her. Not the way his subconscious seemed to think he did.

Jealousy implied a deeper meaning here, an uglier truth.

Leia watched him carefully, then said: "I didn't think of it that way at the time, but ... _yes._ "

He blew out his breath, fell against the wall, all strength in his spine gone. _What are you doing, Leia?_ he thought. _Why are you breaking the rules like this?_

"Good plan," he muttered. "It worked."

God _damn,_ it had worked. He'd been ready to bust through the hotel room door before she'd kissed Stone but actually _hearing it?_ He'd been halfway to the door without a second thought. The crises that followed—the smoke through the flat's window, Chewie's burns, Leia unconscious on the conform couch—had blurred his memory. The act of survival took precedence.

But now he remembered. He remembered white-hot fury, ugly jealousies in his blood, fists clenched at his sides as his boots hit the floor. He remembered the bare, bald, empty ferociousness in his stomach, the power in his arms. The anger had returned to him, manifesting in antagonizing Stone, insatiable even as he broke fingers and glared.

Leia turned toward him, brought a knee up onto the bunk. "I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have done that, not after what Chewie said. It was wrong and I want you to know that I won't do it again."

His eyes narrowed. "What did Chewie say?"

Leia's lips pressed together and Han knew without a doubt that she hadn't meant to let that slip. There'd been an awful long amount of time between when Chewie had left the hotel room and when Han and Salla first heard the audio receiver on the flat's window click on. He hadn't yet gotten the full story of how Leia had wound up in that flat.

Now he wasn't so sure he _wanted_ to know.

Quiet in the room, Chewie's soft breathing a muffled soundtrack to the tense moment between Han and Leia. Heavy, important. A moment for bravery or cowardice: no in-between. Leia seemed to be the one holding the sabacc cards. He could only hope she knew what she was doing.

"I think you know what he told me," she whispered.

Han's natural response was to _run._ Chewie knew everything, knew about the sleepless nights, knew about the wordless terror that overtook Han when Leia was in danger. Knew about the horrifying depths of his feelings toward the princess. Knew how desperately Han wanted to stay and make her see what a good man he actually was, the man he could be if only he was given the opportunity. Chewie knew.

The instinctive trickle of panic ran from the center of Han's chest to his heels, his fingertips. _Run,_ it said. _She knows. She will destroy you. You are vulnerable._

Vulnerable. Exposed. Unprotected. The very essence of what he'd been fighting against this whole time. _Run,_ the isolationist said, the abused, heartless cadet Chewie had saved when Han had saved him, too. _Run,_ said the man who had left Salla in the middle of the night without a goodbye. _Run,_ the coward said, the cheat, the criminal. _Run._

He found Leia's eyes, thought very carefully about his instinct to run. Thought about what he was running from, _who_ he was running from. Thought about resilient, broken, flawed Leia Organa, the princess without a planet. Thought about _Pearl,_ the appropriateness of the code name: her inherent value to the galaxy. _To him._

He was no gem, that was for damn sure. He was ordinary, one of trillions. Some planets had pearls pulled from their oceans: rare and beautiful and with value across the stars. And then there were the rest of the planets, planets without pearls. Planets that had dirt instead. Mud. Clay. Worth nothing as it was. An abysmal annoyance. A product of the functions of life: the tides, rainfall. Nothing special about them.

Not everything had intrinsic value.

 _Run,_ his lesser nature murmured. _Run from her. You can't be trusted with this much value. You're not good enough. You are ordinary. You do not deserve this._

Old voices. Private insecurities. The residual echoes of a street orphan that no one wanted. They weren't loud, and they didn't speak often, but they were there, waiting, in moments like these.

He stared at her, knowing he owed her a response. Knowing she'd been brave enough to be honest with him when they'd rarely been so with each other. Beautiful Leia, worth so much. Rare. Precious because there was only one like her in the entire galaxy.

And something deep clicked into place, a hidden latch buried so far beneath his heart and lungs that he had never, ever thought of its existence. Trust. Trust in Leia to not hurt him. Trust to let her in a bit since she already knew the worst part, the most dangerous part. She knew he loved her. She knew he wasn't the heartless bastard he professed to be. And if she already knew that … well. What more was there to hide?

 _I'm not running,_ he thought with some wonder. _I don't want to run._

"Yeah," he said, licking his lips nervously. "I know what he told you."

She smiled, soft and hesitant, a far cry from her usual tough mask. This was uncomfortable for her, too; he could tell.

"I don't think…" she began and then stopped. "I don't think we should pretend that we don't know what is happening here."

"Leia." He hesitated, then brought a hand to her head, moving a piece of hair out of her eyes. Her skin was soft against his fingers. "I can't stay," he said, though he really didn't want to. "I can't … I have to pay Jabba—"

Leia shook her head. "I don't want to talk about that. Not now."

He didn't either, desperate to avoid the roadblocks in their way. But this had been the whole problem, hadn't it? The crux, the whole issue? That she couldn't go and he couldn't stay?

"We're gonna _have_ to," he said. "Before this gets too crazy."

Her eyes were still, calm and motionless on his as she reached an index finger to brush it against the scar on his chin. "I made you an offer. You could accept it."

Han swallowed, breath thick in his lungs. She was wrong; he _couldn't_ accept her offer. He was not going to bring the Alliance into his debt with Jabba. He was not going to risk her life or the lives of the people who depended on her. "No."

She rolled her eyes. "You don't want my help even if it means we—"

"Find another way to waste your credits, Leia," he interrupted.

"It's _not_ a waste! You are worth it!"

Her voice was just a notch too loud, caught up in her obvious anger. They turned their heads to see if Chewie awoke at her voice, but he didn't move. Han wasn't sure if the Wookiee was still asleep or not; his breathing was deep, his limbs motionless. Knowing the furball had set up this whole conversation by talking to the princess in the first place, Han felt very little need to worry about the big lug's quality of rest.

He swallowed and shook his head. "This isn't a fight to stay up for," he whispered. "Not tonight."

And since she'd shown him some of her bravery, he showed her some of his own. Tentatively he reached a hand between them, brought it up to smooth against her cheek, brushing his fingertips against the pearl-white of her skin. He tried a smile, watched her sad eyes as they travelled across his features.

 _I'm sorry,_ he mouthed to her.

Her hand came up to his, brought it to her lips, held it as she brushed a kiss against his skin, electric and sad. She closed her eyes and brought his hand down to the mattress between them.

"Okay," she murmured. "Later."

He wanted to kiss her. Every cell in his body wanted it, drawn like matter into a black hole, like gravity against a lesser body. The pull was titanic, nearly irresistible. She looked so sad, so defeated, and he wanted more than anything to make her eyes light up, to feel her smile against his lips. Not like the lonely nights, where he kissed her with abandon in his head, but like he knew he _could,_ if circumstances were different. With light touches and whispered, teasing words between them.

But he couldn't do that.

So he brought her closer, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and moved to stretch out along the bunk. He tucked his knees behind hers, held her close, bodies flush, and snuck his nose into her hair, inhaling deeply as she burrowed into his chest and hips. With herculean effort Han dismissed the worries of the night and focused on holding her, the woman he loved, as she drifted off into an exhausted sleep and left him wide awake behind her.


	22. Gambles

_Gambles_

* * *

Leia's dreams were beautiful and muted the night she slept in Han's arms. None of the ferocious desire that had haunted her the night before in the Shocks: none of the anger or self-doubt of her dreams since Alderaan had been lost. She dreamed, but it was like pastoral art. Quiet, calm. Colors that didn't burn her eyes and sounds that didn't hurt her ears. No pain at all: a most welcome reprieve.

She didn't awaken when Han moved to take his shift watching Stone, didn't hear Salla's low _get your ass outta bed, Slick._ Leia was exhausted and thankful for the rest. It had been months since she'd last slept so well.

Leia could attribute much of that rest with the pure exhaustion of this mission. She _could._ But she'd had horrible missions before and could not remember a peaceful sleep after any of them. And she knew her emotional anxieties about Han were often a cause of the restlessness: perhaps Chewie's permanent-range growls had soothed some fears she hadn't acknowledged to herself.

Perhaps. But she was smarter than that. Leia knew why she slept so well, surrounded by the comforting arms, the warmth, the tangible presence of the man she loved. She felt safe for the first time in a long time, felt hope in a dark present. She was desperate for the peace his arms promised, for the confidence that his chest at her back inspired. Not sexual, not really: more like the physical assurance of his reality that she needed to let her guard down, to let herself rest.

Han was there and things would be okay.

When she felt rough fingertips at her cheek, her eyes shot open, the world around her blurry. She thought she could see Han, crouched to her level, looking at her with tired eyes, but only because he was so close.

"I woulda taken your shift, too, if I thought I could get away with it," he murmured. "But I have a feeling you would be pissed _._ "

Leia blinked and his eyes came into sharper focus. Brilliant, concerned green. "Yes, I would have," she said, with a slight yawn. "You need sleep, too."

"I'm fine," he said with a quick smile.

The smile didn't ameliorate the dusting of dark circles beneath his eyes, nor did it ease his small frown. Leia sighed and sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed to stand on questioning legs. Her shoulder felt sore and her bruised lip ached, but she was awake and rested.

Leia turned to Han, lifted her chin to look him in the eye. He hesitated, then reached a hand to brush his thumb against the dried blood on her bottom lip. "Should have asked for some bacta," he whispered. "That looks like it hurts."

She shrugged. "Lesson learned," she muttered. "Next time I kiss someone, I'm going to ask them up front if they bite."

Her gamble worked. Han's real smile, the bright, full one he so rarely gave, broke through his exhaustion. His hand fell away and he sat—fell, really—onto the bed with a protest of springs and coils. "Good to know," he said, hands behind his head as he leaned against the wall.

She waited a beat, expecting something else from him. She wasn't sure what, exactly, but it felt like there was more to his reply. A hanging sense of unfinished work. _Ask away, Princess,_ maybe: or _not unless you want me to._ Something like that, with his typical irreverence and careless sexual confidence.

But he didn't say anything else. He swung his legs onto the bunk, closed his eyes and fell asleep with the same kind of exhausted relinquishment that she had felt earlier in his arms.

She turned and left the bunkroom, walked into the fresher, splashed cold water on her face and then made her way to the second room. Identical to the first: two bunks placed on either side from each other, separated by a low table and two chairs, one of which was pushed out slightly, indicating that that was the designated watch seat. Like a lookout tower in the old myths Leia had loved as a child.

Leia checked on Salla first. The woman was sound asleep on her side, facing the center of the room. Her arms were crossed protectively in front of her chest and she still wore her boots. Her dark skin looked blue in the low light of the bunk room, the night sensors calibrated to humanoid sleeping preferences. Salla breathed deeply and Leia, reassured, moved to take the chair facing Stone.

In his sleep Stone looked young, her age or perhaps even younger. The hard frown he'd worn all afternoon was absent and in its place was an open-mouthed, peaceful boyishness. He lay sprawled out on his back, limbs akimbo and limp, snoring softly.

Leia leaned back in the chair, crossed one foot over the other and tried to bring her mind to full alertness. It was difficult with the lights dimmed. She fought against the fog of beckoning sleep and harnessed her laser-sharp focus into a plan of attack for the morning.

She needed to know if Stone had access to the heaters. That was the first problem. She wasn't sure what his mindset would be once he awoke; would intimidation still be the right tack or would the sleep change his mind about helping them?

 _Men like him don't change,_ Leia thought, remembering the immature, proprietory way he'd acted the previous day.

Then came the need to pool resources. The _Falcon_ was kilometers away from the Pii. They needed a scrambled comm to check in with Threepio and make sure the ship was safe in her berth. At this point Leia assumed at least half their party would be sent to secure the _Falcon_ once Prisht released them from her care. Without her, there was no payload and no escape. And with Grouka the Hutt _and_ the Imperials possibly onto their mission here—and Jabba a big, glaring question mark, too—Leia would defer to Han's paranoia about his ship.

 _Just this once,_ she thought, knowing that it wouldn't be _just this once._

There was the question of their contacts, too. If the heaters were still within their metaphorical reach, they needed to know what help they could get from Salla and Prisht. How long would they have Salla's assistance? Leia wanted the smuggler to follow them to _Home One,_ to join them in their fight against the Empire. She was trustworthy and smart, resourceful and knowledgeable. She'd be an asset to the Alliance. She'd be a _friend._ She already was.

And then Prisht, who could be a very helpful resource, too. Not just in their escape or in their acquisition of the heaters: she would be of enormous help in the future, too, changing the way the Alliance could funnel supplies to bases. The Distributary was a blueprint for a whole new kind of supply chain; an agreement between Leia and Prisht could yield smuggling contracts that were verified and trustworthy. Perhaps a tariff agreement? Or a promise to share intel about Imperial rotations? Fleet whereabouts? Even an opportunity to legitimize The Distributary once the Alliance won the war?

But while Salla had proven herself to Leia, Prisht still remained a mystery. The first rule of politics was _know your enemy_. Leia was no closer to understanding Prisht than she was to being a Jedi. In any other situation, she would attempt to coordinate their individual traumas: align Prisht's slavery with Alderaan's destruction and bring the hope of a new future into play.

But Leia knew better. She knew the Old Republic had turned a blind eye to the Chevin's traditional subjugation of the Chev. She knew the matter had been decided centuries ago by a oft-maligned statute of no interference in cultural practices in non-member worlds. Anthropologically, the science was sound. Decency said otherwise.

So Leia's promises of a newer, better government modeled after a republic that had utterly failed Prisht would not work. One was the same as the other to Prisht. And Leia could promise change all she wanted—could argue with the Chev until she was blue in the face—but it was clear Prisht valued results. And Leia had none to offer her.

And, too, there was Prisht's odd demand to not repeat herself. Leia had read several studies of enslaved populations as a junior senator—before such studies were mysteriously lost in a databank erasure a year before the Death Star destroyed Alderaan—and none of them had mentioned this particular personality quirk. She suspected it was unique to Prisht, perhaps a manifestation of her need for control after a lifetime without it.

Leia wasn't sure. It made the process of trying to negotiate with the Chev problematic, at the very least. Deals were struck by the repetition of terms. By denying Leia the ability to repeat herself, Prisht ensured total compliance with her own demands, and that was never a situation Leia would allow. She had a fair amount of power within the Alliance, sure, but total agreement to an unknown supplier's demands? Leia could never get away with it. The deal would be struck down the minute High Command debriefed her.

And Leia needed to know what _mistryka_ meant. She was not leaving this moon until she knew what had made Prisht offer them assistance if it wasn't their association with the Alliance. How had Salla known to use it in their defense? The smuggler only knew Leia by reputation and through their adventures yesterday. What made Salla think Leia was _mistryka,_ whatever that meant?

In that same vein, Leia was enormously curious about the extent of Salla's relationship with Prisht. Call it nosiness, call it idle gossip: she didn't care. Prisht had called Salla _my love_ in the cell. And Leia was furiously compelled to know what that meant. Was Prisht a former lover? A window into Salla's past? A simple acquaintance?

So many questions and so little time to ask them.

Leia reached behind her to nab one of the ration bars neatly displayed on the table at her back. She was ravenous: they hadn't had time for little things like hunger or thirst yesterday and the sleep had triggered her body's need for food.

She ripped the plastex around the ration bar, bit into spongey carbohydrates, tasteless and boring, and tried to imagine the meals Han and Chewie sometimes made from their supply runs. Unscheduled and unexpected, Han would send her a message, always the same: _food on Falcon, 1900._ She didn't always attend: meetings and late shifts sometimes prevented it. But the invitations came to her comm, bland and impersonal, inevitable as a sunrise.

And those meals were the first glimpses she'd had of a caring, good man beneath Han Solo's arrogance and presumption. Because the food they made was designed for many species, in case one of the Rogues followed Luke to join them, or if another smuggler was on base. Because he never took payment. Because he _did_ take requests, the desired edibles appearing mysteriously between supply runs and without proper report on the mission files. Because that invitation always came, regardless of heated fights in the corridors, sure and true.

She chewed the ration bar, remembering, warmth running up and down her veins.

* * *

Stone awoke with a half-hour left in Leia's shift.

She'd long-ago disposed of the ration bar and had put her feet up on the bunk, sitting in a rather undignified position: very Han-like. She tipped the chair back on its hind legs and then returned it to its designed position, over and over again, bored and discerning the creeping edge of anxiety in her need to move. She'd considered every possible way to manage the next few hours: if Stone knew the coordinates, if Stone didn't know the coordinates but had a backup stashed somewhere. If Stone didn't know the coordinates and didn't have a backup. What she'd do or say in each scenario: a very real demonstration of her political training in action.

But she felt the anxiety anyway, preparedness failing her in a moment of slight claustrophobia and realization of the coming hours of an uncertain future. She'd thought herself into a corner and still had to yield to the possibility that they might not survive the hours ahead of them. So many unknowns: so many enemies.

Leia tilted her head to the ceiling, closed her eyes, and only bothered to look down when she heard her charge move.

Stone opened his eyes, blinked twice and then started when he saw her awake and balancing on a half-tipped chair at the foot of his bunk. "What're you doing?" he asked, bleary and confused.

Leia let the chair rock forward onto all four legs. "Quiet." She nodded toward the far side of the room, indicating Salla. "It's my watch," Leia continued. "If you _must_ talk, talk quietly."

Stone sighed, closed his eyes. "You guys are the worst. You've been watching me all night?"

She didn't respond, choosing instead to start the process of readying her hair for the day ahead. It was a long, involved endeavor: she hadn't taken her hair down the night before for her usual loose braid and now faced a gargantuan effort to tame it into submission.

"You're not going to answer my questions this morning, either. That's just great," Stone said. He sat up with a soft grunt, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. "Let me know if you're going to leave me with Madam Freaky, alright?"

Leia loosened the bindings on the braided coronet, winced at the stiff feel of her hair. She needed a fresher and a miracle to make herself look presentable. "Why shouldn't we?" she asked.

"Because she'll kill me?" Stone said. "Seems like a good enough reason."

"She didn't say that."

"She said she hadn't decided my fate. That's not usually a good sign," Stone said.

Leia hummed, managed to loosen a large knot in her hair. She didn't feel badly for Stone; sometimes people chose the wrong action. And while she believed in second chances—how could she _not_ if she professed to love a former spice smuggler?—she also believed in basic decency that underwrote bad decisions. And she had yet to see much of that basic decency in Stone. Didn't mean it wasn't there, just that she hadn't seen it.

"Can you at least tell me why you wanted the badge?" Stone asked.

Her eyes slid to the young man on the bunk and her fingers paused their relentless detangling.

"I know Grouka had me code the badge with coordinates," he continued. "I know you're Leia Organa. I figured out that the big guy with the anger management issues is Han Solo and the Wookiee is Chewbacca. Always imagined meeting those two would go a little differently."

Leia gave a dry laugh. "I'm sure."

"What I don't get is why you're here," Stone continued. "Everybody and their mother knows about Solo working with the Alliance after those lame-ass publicity stunts you guys put out. And you're…"

She raised an eyebrow.

"... kinda famous, too."

Stone looked uncomfortable, as people often did when they first referred to Alderaan's destruction in her presence. Funny how the galaxy had spawned so many different life forms, so many different cultures, and yet everyone felt awkward when confronting a survivor of genocide.

"So what's important enough to the rebels to send you guys here? Is it the mishtrucka thing?"

Leia shrugged. "I don't know what _mistryka_ means"

"Because they're making a big deal out of it," Stone said out of the corner of his mouth. "I'd figure that one out in case it means, like, _dinner_ or something."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Stone swept out a hand. "So? What so important?"

Leia regarded the coder carefully, watching for signs of anything but pure curiosity. She didn't trust him—at _all_ —but she had to know if he had access to the coordinates. And while he talked an awful lot for a man who had little to no power in their situation, he hadn't volunteered the information of his own volition.

She leaned forward, kept her chin up, and took a calculated risk.

"We need the coordinates for the payload waiting for us there," she said.

Stone blinked. "You realize the coordinates are from Grouka the Hutt, right?"

Leia gave a curt nod.

"And that he's probably already moved whatever it is you need?"

She pursed her lips. "I have a feeling that Jabba is keeping him busy. We stumbled onto the perfect window to obtain the coordinates."

Stone tilted his head side to side. "I mean, I wouldn't bet against it. But that's an awfully big gamble."

Leia nodded. The whole mission from the very start had been a gamble, but it had been based on Targeter's intel and Rieekan's opinion on the veracity of that intel. And if it meant the continual survival of the Alliance, she was more than willing to chase a few leads. Echo Base would never come to fruition if they didn't find a way to acclimate to the tundras of Hoth.

"I've taken larger gambles," she murmured.

Stone's shoulders tensed, understanding the reference.

"And I am going to do whatever I need to do to take down the Empire. With my bare hands, if necessary."

She paused, knowing that point required its own moment to process. Stone watched her with eyes she recognized from Salla Zend, from people who were afraid to hope.

And so Leia Organa did what she did best. She _inspired_.

"Do you know what the Empire does to prisoners of war? To traitors?"

Stone shrugged.

"They torture them. They inject them with nerve-stimulants and then use electrowands on bare skin. It feels like fire, like being burned alive. Every nerve ending lights up like a supernova. It's the worst kind of pain you could imagine and it happens again and again. For hours. Until the prisoner begs to die because anything is worth a reprieve. Cause and courage mean nothing. Right and wrong mean _nothing._ Millions of years of civilization boils down to basic survival. The only thing that matters is stopping the pain."

She slid her eyes to the side, swallowed. Used her honest vulnerability like the weapon it was.

"And then they take the prisoner to an observation deck in stun-cuffs. They tell her that she has a choice: break or cause the deaths of billions of beings. And cause and courage mean nothing. Right and wrong mean _nothing._ All that matters is preventing innocent deaths: the deaths of beloved parents and palace staff and the people she would gladly die for. But that isn't the deal. They die for nothing and she is left to carry the burden."

Stone shifts, uncomfortable. "You watched?"

Leia slowly turned to face him. "Yes. Of course. Because evil exists to suffocate hope."

"What hope?" Stone said. "You said it yourself. They can destroy _planets._ What hope is there?"

"There is _always_ hope. Because there are beings in the galaxy who knew precisely the gamble they are making. There are people who are warned about nerve-stimulants and electrowands, who understand that the Empire might be able to destroy planets, and _will still go in."_

Leia looked Stone dead in the eye, watched realization color the gray like the lens on a cam.

"There is hope because three of the beings with us right now actually earned the badge you pretended was yours. Fought and lost for it. Heroism exists. Cause and courage matter. You obviously admire these beings, otherwise you wouldn't have worn the badge in the first place."

Stone dropped his eyes.

"So it's time to make your choice. You can easily keep pretending that you have the courage you want to have. Or you can _actually have it."_

Leia sat back in her chair, put her feet on the bunk and waited. Her hair tickled her arms, half-loose and hanging. She was dirty, tired and bursting with emotions of all kinds. But she had spoken honestly and with patented focus. And she would only know how effective she'd been when Stone next spoke.

She didn't trust him. But she _hoped._

Quiet. Stillness and the beating of her heart loud in her ears. Their mission—their _lives_ —depended on Stone's next words. Creeping anxiety blanketed her entirely, but she fought for surety and calm.

And then, finally, an answer.

"I don't know the coordinates," Stone said to his knees. "But I know where to get them."

Leia closed her eyes, exhaled, the anxiety falling to her feet like a curtain. This she could handle _This_ she could work with. "Tell me," she said.


	23. Convincing

_Convincing_

* * *

Cool, calming black. No pressure, no nerve-wracking guilt, no need to be brave or without pain. Sleep: Han's small galaxy of peace, where no one could threaten what he treasured because in the black he treasured nothing. Attachment-free, debt-free, solaced and kind: these were the dreamless nights he most enjoyed.

He knew why he loved the black: it was as close to escapism as he could afford. If he disassociated too much in his line of work, he would be killed. Quickly and without much fanfare. He sure as hell didn't mind dying but the idea of being caught while daydreaming? No. That was no way to go.

The black was a godsend. It wasn't bad, it wasn't good, it just _was,_ and that was what he needed after the terror and happiness of the past two days. He needed peace and calm and a break from the very real danger in his world. Nothing surprised him in the black; nothing moved or had intention. He could exist without knowing he existed, could breathe and shift and be alive without the pain and stress of his waking hours.

A smuggler's paradise. The best kind of orphan dream.

The comforting dark was interrupted by a low female voice, full of kindness but insistent. _Pushy,_ almost, like an incoming tide following a preordained path. Potentially destructive: there was no telling where she would take him. Out to sea? Maybe.

"Han. Get up."

He knew who was trying to wake him. He'd know that no-nonsense, in-control tone anywhere.

"There's no way in hell that was three hours, Leia," he muttered into the pillow.

"It was close enough," she said, then louder: "Chewie, you have to get up, too."

 _Is someone trying to kill us?_ Chewie growled from the other side of the room.

If he'd been more awake, Han might've laughed at the Wookiee's fake sternness. _Fake_ because Leia had taken Chewie out to sea a long time ago.

A pause. "No," Leia admitted. "Not yet."

 _Then return in two hours._

"I would if I could, boys, but we need to plan and we need to plan _well,_ " Leia said, voice loud and brave.

For once, Han didn't feel the trickle of admiration he usually felt when she got that tone in her voice. He just wanted her to lie down next to him, wanted to wrap his arms around her and return to the black for a few more hours. That was the only the black was missing: a Leia-sized body fit right next to him, calm and peaceful.

"Plan _what_?" he asked, the pillow muffling his voice.

A pause, and then a slim, cool hand against his cheek, brushing against day-old stubble. Han opened his eyes, caught the blurry outline of an energized princess, and groaned once he saw the look in her eyes. _Trouble,_ he thought. _She's getting us into trouble again._

"We're raiding a spice den today," she said.

Han blinked at her. "Oh, is that all?" he said and then groaned as he forced himself to crawl back into wakefulness, into the world of danger and fear and, beneath it all, the embers of a new joy he wasn't yet brave enough to name.

* * *

Once the group had slogged through their normal fresher rituals and felt human again—or a drenched but clean Wookiee, as the case might be—they reconvened in the bunkroom where Salla and Stone had slept the night before. Han, Leia and Salla sat at the table, their elbows up and in various stages of acceptance of what they had to do next. Chewie leaned against the wall nearest the fresher, knee bent and foot pressed behind him in a very human pose of nonchalance that Han strongly suspected might have been stolen from him. And Stone sat cross-legged on his bunk, biting his lip and twisting his hands in his lap. Nervous but trying not to look nervous, and in the process only managing to look _more_ nervous.

"You're serious about this?" Stone asked Leia. "Going in ourselves?"

She was serious; _of course_ she was. Stone had given her all the tools she needed to have hope again. Hope for the payload, hope for the success of their mission to Nar Shaddaa. Han knew what a futile battle it would be to pit himself against Leia's vast supply of optimism. And yet—

"I have a question," he interrupted, raising a hand as if he were in a lecture on Carida. "Do we have an idea of how to _not_ get killed? Because I have some doubts."

"I agree," Salla said. "This feels a little crazy to me."

 _A little crazy?_ Han wanted to laugh. _A little crazy_ would be walking into a spice den owned by one of Grouka's henchmen to get a set of coordinates. _A lot crazy_ would be going there on the word of a punk-ass idiot who couldn't guarantee that the payload was still located where the coordinates said they were. Grouka had probably moved the heaters by now; it would be just their luck to survive all they had done _and_ all Leia wanted them to do, only to get to the coordinates and have no fucking heaters to show for it.

"The coordinates _are_ there," Stone offered from the bunk. "I'm sure of that much."

 _But not the heaters. You don't know for sure that those are where you say they are,_ Chewie continued for him.

Han nodded, finger out and wagging in Leia's direction. "Chewie's right. And how do we know it's not a set-up?"

A way to collect on their bounties? A way to get into Jabba's good graces? If Stone had already burned his bridges with Grouka, the next logical option for self-preservation would be to offer Han and Chewie as a way to get on Jabba's good side. One crime boss for another. Salla was as good as dead in that situation; Prisht and her operation, too, if word got out. Not to mention _Leia,_ who was neck-in-neck with Luke for the top spot on the Imperial Most-Wanted List.

The spice den, the coordinates... Both could be traps. This didn't smell right to Han at all.

"I'm in this, too," Stone snapped. "You aren't the only one who can give it all up and fight for the rebels."

"Give it all up," Han repeated and gestured to Leia. "You sound like that one."

Leia rolled her eyes and Stone looked exasperated, shoulders falling and body slouching as if he was weary of the conversation. "Come off it, Solo. You're sure as hell a rebel."

Han narrowed his eyes and fumed while Leia tried to bring them all back to task. "The question is what to do about Stone's intel, not _if_ we should do something."

Han shot a withering glare at the coder. "Forgive me if I'm not lining up to trust Dumbass over there."

Stone sent him a rude gesture and Han stood, pushing his chair backward, ready to start the day off with a good, old-fashioned beat-down. Leia's late-night disclosure of her intentions in kissing Stone hadn't softened Han's feelings toward the younger man. His rage had sharpened into a point, deadly and true. And Leia was gonna throw herself into danger on Stone's word, like he'd earned it, like he'd earned _anything_ except maybe another broken finger. Or two. Or ten.

Leia stood, too, and slipped between Han and Stone, quick as a whip. She pressed a hand to the center of Han's chest, a startling soft gesture for her to make toward him. That was the kind of intimate gesture she gave Luke _._ Never _Han_. He got barbed words and confusing conversations and the occasional far-flung hug when things got really desperate.

Except the rules had changed now, hadn't they? It seemed even more ludicrous now in daytime than it had last night. She'd suggested it would be better to not ignore what it was they felt toward one another, and clearly she was prepared to do that publicly.

Warmth in his chest where she touched him, warmth through his bloodstream like good whiskey on a blustery day in front of a fire. The sharp point of his rage abandoned him. Leia's hand—the power he felt in her repeated willingness to touch him—blunted his urgency and he was left with a soft humming beneath her palm. Unique. Strange.

But good, too.

"We need everyone alive to make this work," Leia murmured in a voice solely for him. "You can't kill him."

"You're just gonna take his word for it? Trust the guy that blew up his own place because he got nervous?" Han asked.

 _The cretin can't be trusted,_ Chewie offered.

Stone slapped the mattress on either side of his legs, the noise loud in the tense room. "I have no idea what _you_ are saying," he said, throwing a dirty look at Chewie. "But, yeah, I blew up my place because a Wookiee barrelled in with a bowcaster. I think that's a good time to panic!"

Han shrugged, nonplussed. "Happens to me all the time. You don't see me blowing shit up."

Leia did a double-take, raising an eyebrow. "You _must_ be joking," she said. "You blow up quite a few things on a regular basis, Han."

She had a point, but he wasn't going to admit it. "When I do it, it's strategy. When _he_ does it, it's stupid."

 _Untrue,_ Chewie growled at the same time that Salla laughed to Han's left, loud and strong. He furrowed his brow and turned betrayed eyes on her, thinking that _Salla_ at least would understand his side. She knew how things went down, knew that there was a difference between Stone's cowardice and Han's own slightly pyromaniacal tactics.

Salla sat at the table, chin on her fist, watching the discussion with rapt attention and eyes that Han suddenly didn't trust for a second.

"Slick, you're a lot of things and trigger-happy is one of 'em," she said with another laugh. "Can't argue with the princess there."

He didn't miss the quick look Salla and Leia shared, companionable and somehow still resigned. And even at his expense, he found it fascinating to see Leia share such a look with another woman. Not enough women around base that Leia felt comfortable talking with, he supposed, and that was … sad? That she didn't have people around her?

Lots of revelations on this trip.

"Back to the plan," he muttered, gruffness flooding his voice in an effort to hide the warmth that still hummed in his chest, an imprint of Leia's palm.

"The plan, yes," Leia said as she took her seat the table again. "Stone will accompany us to the den as insurance. We get caught, he gets caught. Simple."

Han sat down, too, but turned his body to face Stone, putting his feet up on the edge of the bunk and rocking back on the chair's hind legs. Leia shot him an amused look, but Han didn't bother to respond.

"You agreed to that? To break into a spice den?" he asked Stone.

Seemed a little ambitious for the scumbag. Anyone who railed against a broken finger the way Stone had wasn't exactly a seasoned soldier. Chewie'd damn near had his paw blown off yesterday and he hadn't whined about it once. He'd seen Salla navigate a weapons hub with a dislocated shoulder without a sound, had seen Leia take down a six-foot Imperial sympathizer with her bare hands and three broken ribs.

Stone didn't seem that kind of capable. Not to Han, at least.

The coder held Han's eyes, then turned away to look sheepishly at Leia. "She's pretty convincing," he murmured.

Han's eyes slid from one person in the group to another, taking stock of the beings in the room, all of whom Leia had convinced to stay, or fight, or help them at one point or another. A trail of people who'd offered their lives for Leia's cause and instead of it being a dark mark, it felt noble, felt right on a moon that had very little nobility or rightness anywhere on it.

"Don't I know it," he said, then blew out his breath in a rush and put his hands behind his head. "Alright, Worship. What _exactly_ is the plan?"

.


	24. Both

_Both_

* * *

Salla walked down a long hallway: steady pace, sure step. Her stride was long because her legs were long, and she'd learned the benefits of a strong gait early in her life. She could sway her hips with the best of them, demonstrate pure sensuality if she so desired. She could also command attention with the confidence of an athletic, physically-powerful business-woman. She was both, had always been both, and she was smart enough to know that complexity scared small-minded people. She'd learned to portray one persona at a time for best effect.

It sometimes made her feel less-than, like she wasn't allowed to be her whole self for fear of confusing or intimidating people past the point of their cooperation. A dark-skinned human woman with sex appeal and a skilled, capable background? It was safer to be one or the other in the current political climate, not _both_.

The corner of her mouth quirked to the side but she was otherwise calm, clear and confident.

Outward confidence hid her nervous excitement for the coming encounter. Prisht had many scars—emotional _and_ physical, both—and if there was one way to fuck up a conversation with the Chev, it was coming to her with a variable. And Salla's mission today contained, admittedly...

 _So many variables_.

The whole thing was variables. The small band of people in the suite behind her contained a zealous princess, a Wookiee warrior with a bowcaster, her ex _-whatever he was,_ and a guy they'd accidentally picked up along the way. Any one of them was a variable. The most glaring question mark was Han; she wasn't sure that he wouldn't outright kill Stone if given the chance. Han was emotionally all over the place the past few days: anger and adoration and even a bit of self-consciousness in there, too. He'd _apologized._ That was enough for Salla to take Han's emotional stability with a grain of salt.

Chaos. It was utter chaos.

She grimaced. _Is this how the Alliance always plans things?_

From the outside the Alliance to Restore the Republic had the reputation of being both deeply ideological and scrappy as all hell. Salla had always assumed that despite its optimistic, axiomatic trappings, at its heart the Alliance had a political machinery that dictated how and when that scrappiness came out. Propaganda holos, loud and splashy attacks on weapons depots, the brilliant vids of freed slaves and overthrown Moffs … as inspiring as it all was, there was money behind it and therefore a long-term plan for how to achieve its political objectives. The same as the Empire, just with a bit more dogma to it. Politicians were vrelts; there was no going around that. The ones who ran the Alliance were no different that the ones who ran the Empire, or so she'd thought.

Then she'd met Leia Organa.

Quixotic and bizarrely moral for a woman who didn't seem to have a problem with seducing someone to achieve her endgame. Beautiful and confident but, _god,_ so young. Barely an adult at all.

And a goddamned _Jedi_ on top of it all, whether Han wanted to admit it or not. Even though the Jedi were extinct and hadn't been seen in decades.

Salla hadn't wanted to stir up trouble, particularly because they didn't need any more trouble than what they already had. The word _Jedi_ was tantamount to treason, even in these parts. It wasn't as if the Jedi had been beloved on Nar Shaddaa, after all. And the princess seemed like a nice enough person with a hell of a lot on her plate, running a rebellion and waging war against the established galactic government.

But it was clear as day to someone who knew what to look for.

The Chev called them _mistryka,_ roughly translated as _power of the people_. Prisht had told her the myths of her people late one night over a bottle of too-sweet wine. The long-suffering tales of the warriors of the light, champions for freedom. The hope for a people who were born, raised and died in slavery. The Chev believed someone would free them from their ancestral prisons, _had_ believed it for millennia. Billions of Chev had died watching for forthcoming _mistryka,_ ready to eliminate the Chevin. Salla suspected the idea of the _mistryka_ predated the modern Jedi themselves, that the two were completely different from one another in substance.

Salla had thought the notion romantic but absurd. The Blernkshas believed their planet was a star beneath its craggy surface; the Fren believed their blood had the untapped power to let them see the future, like ichor from the gods. The galaxy was full of savior myths, and none of them had been proven true.

Except for Prisht.

A wandering Jedi had freed her from her slavers twenty-some years ago. Prisht didn't know the name, only that he'd been kind and ruthless, that he'd used his weapon to eviscerate the Chevin who'd owned her family. She'd spoken of him only once—she did _not_ like to repeat herself—and in her recollection she could only tell of blue eyes, sandy-blonde hair and haunted pain in a black cloak.

 _Mistryka,_ she'd asserted. _Only mistryka could do what he did, Salla Zend._

For Prisht, _mistryka_ were real and one had fulfilled a prophecy for freedom on one small scale. Nothing in the galaxy could convince her otherwise, not Salla's doubt or the first galactic news holos she'd seen, telling her the Jedi were a threat to the Republic. Nothing. She was a stubborn being and utterly committed to her belief.

Prisht's savior had been on Salla's mind when the princess had opened and closed the ancient hotel room door without touching it, when Han had confirmed to her that Darth Vader had not broken Leia Organa. Telekinesis. Unbreakable mental strength. A propensity for dangerous situations and a penchant for lost causes. Either the stories about the princess were false—and Han's discomfort with the whole thing had been telling to Salla—or the princess was _mistryka._

And if a real Jedi was at the helm of the Alliance, then Salla had to confront the hard truth: the Alliance was a real, blood-pumping, ideologically-minded entity that had no idea what the _fuck_ it was doing. Leia herself was capable, sure. And Salla quite liked the princess' spunk, the way Han followed her around like a dumb nerf with stars in his eyes. It was funny to her, the spectacular denial from a man who claimed complete control over his own destiny.

The princess inspired that kind of thing, though. Salla could see why men and women loved her, died for her, why she was always spotted off-base and interacting with real people. Salla used to think it was insane, the way the Alliance let her out of her cage so often, putting their heavyweight out in the field where her chances of being caught rose exponentially.

But she understood now: the Alliance couldn't _not_ have her in view because the Alliance had no clue how to win this war without her.

And if Leia was reckless and willing to risk everything for a bunch of heaters? And if she was a Jedi? Hell, the Alliance was literally the rag-tag group of antisicophants they professed to be. Not a political machine bent on their own betterment.

Salla wanted to be scared of that truth, scared that the future of the galaxy depended on a bunch of idealists in X-wings. But … well, Salla herself had seen what rogues and street urchins with a big, hefty chip on the shoulder could do. The Battle of Nar Shaddaa had made that absolutely clear to her.

Organic rebellion with actual, real ideals? One look at Leia Organa confirmed it.

Salla shook her head and sped up her pace. The quicker she stopped thinking about _why_ she was doing things, the sooner she got to actually doing them.

She took a corner hard, nearly plowed into a finned and fanged Aqualish. She didn't apologize, didn't even stop her quick step. She was the smart and savvy business-woman right now and there was no time for pleasantries in a hallway.

The door to her right was nondescript and bland, so reminiscent of Prisht that it boggled Salla's mind that people didn't automatically realize it was the Chev's hiding place. The clear discrepancy between Prisht's public image and the woman beneath was astounding sometimes, but that was how it went with powerful women, wasn't it?

Salla punched in her access code twice, screwing up the last two digits on her first try. It had been nearly eight months since she'd come to Prisht's personal quarters unannounced. The intervening months had left a sour taste in Salla's mouth, not because she felt abandoned but because she was unsure how Prisht would react to the intended plan of attack, how it would appear to Prisht when Salla had been trying to keep a low profile since Grouka's apparent death.

Their relationship was predicated on freedom, the ability for Salla to disappear when needed. Prisht had long ago determined that she would not leave The Distributary ever again, had built for herself the home and business that would see her death. And Salla's life was in the stars, untethered to any one place. The connection between Prisht and Salla necessitated a kind of committed non-commitment, the understanding that there was kindness, friendship and support between them but no actual relationship aside from a few nights here and there when Salla could find the opportunity.

Salla found it a little sad. She was built for relationships, craved recognition and a home; her past romantic partnerships demonstrated that quite clearly. But this arrangement was how the galaxy worked, and it was better than not seeing Prisht at all. She would take the scattered moments, treasure them when she was away and look forward to her next visit.

She stepped into the quarters with a quick breath, running her eyes from left to right. Prisht's suite was indicative of its owner: white and gray and sterile. Hard lines everywhere: no conform couch, no unnecessary pillows, no refuse or evidence of actual habitation but for the sound of footsteps on the hallway tile.

"Salla Zend," Prisht's voice preceded her appearance. "I have wondered where you've been for hours now."

The Chev turned a corner, her gray skin light in the bright overhead paneling and violet eyes hard. She looked rested and lovely, the lines of her shoulders strong under her sleeveless tunic and loose pants tucked into lackluster but useful spacer's boots. _My boots?_ Salla thought, but dismissed out of hand. A new series of gold rings littered her hand; they shined in the light. Business must be good in The Distributary if Prisht could afford rings from the Core.

 _Both,_ the look screamed. Both terrifying and fascinating.

Salla looped her fingers through her belt and shifted her weight, knowing exactly what was ahead.

"I had some things to discuss with my… with the others," she said.

"Was my offer not clear enough?" Prisht asked, passing Salla to stand in front of the closed door. "Four bunks, five beings. You were supposed to come here last night."

Salla nodded. "We needed to watch Stone. And I thought Han and Chewie wouldn't rest without assurance that you meant no harm. If I was there, they knew you would not be able to kill them without killing me, too."

Prisht paused. "I have been nothing but hospitable."

Salla wanted to laugh. "You knocked them out, separated them and left them in the smallest quarters you have. That's not hospitable to humans."

That was a recipe for disaster when it came to these beings in particular. Salla wished she'd had the opportunity to prep Prisht on her way to the Pii. Perhaps she could have prevented some of the tension of yesterday's introductions.

Then again, she hadn't even been sure Prisht would allow them entrance. Salla alone could have easily found refuge from trouble in The Distributary. Salla with four unknown people, hunted by who-knows-what? Not likely. Prisht had an illegal enterprise to consider: the health and safety of her crew and the invisibility of her partners.

"I do not understand humans," Prisht mumbled.

Salla tilted her head to the side and grinned. The Chev was as cantankerous as any Corellian and as stubborn as the most belligerent tyrant. _Adorable,_ she thought, but kept it to herself. There was a narrow window for emotions when it came to Prisht and that window was not open at the moment.

"I will admit I do not find Solo nearly as enticing as you do," Prisht continued. "Your stories exaggerated his beauty."

"Handsomeness," Salla corrected. "Human males aren't _beautiful_. I feel like I've told you this before."

Prisht shook her head. "Impossible."

"If you say so." Salla shrugged. "And you don't even like Garik Loran. I don't think you're a good judge of men. Stick to what you're good at."

Prisht pursed her lips, amused. "I have missed you."

Salla took the invitation. Quick steps, a lunge and she was enveloped in Prisht's arms, awkward only in that Salla knew there was no time to relish the embrace. But she wanted this moment for herself, wanted to feel wanted after the dredging up of past memories, of the bite of pain when she first saw Han in the _Golden Hand_ two days ago. Salla was perfectly happy with loose attachments, loved the agreement between Prisht and herself that they were a little more than casual and a lot more committed to each other than they liked to admit.

Prisht was terrifying when angry, when threatened. Learning to appreciate and admire the being beneath her thick skin and the years of trauma had been an adventure all its own. No one would ever accuse Salla of taking the easy road when it came to companions.

"Missed you, too," she murmured into the thick fabric of Prisht's pristine collar.

Prisht was warm, her arms strong around Salla, the faint scent of citrus and steel a relief against the cold loneliness of her work with Grouka. She was tempted to put off the inevitable, tempted to follow Prisht to her bunkroom and let the stress and anxiety of the coming hours fade away. Hadn't she earned that much? Hadn't she fought hard for a good cause?

But.

Salla sighed and stepped away, regret tugging at her skin. "I'm sorry. I can't stay much longer. We have to leave."

Prisht blinked, tilted her head. "That is unfortunate."

"And I need a favor," Salla said.

The Chev moved away from the doorway, into the kitchenette, began the process of preparing her morning tea. "You want to take Stone with you?"

"Yes," Salla walked to the other side of the kitchenette, leaned over the counter to watch the line of Prisht's back. "We need him to lead us to a spice den—"

Prisht waved her arm to silence Salla. "I do not want to know where you are going or what you are doing. It is safer to not know."

"Alright," Salla said, aware of the hard edge coming into Prisht's voice. "I promise, Stone will not be able to give up the location of The Distributary. I _promise,_ Prisht. I'll kill him before he has the chance."

The fear that kept the Chev up at night, the fear that made her harsh and parsimonious. Prisht's life was neatly ordered next to her business, a business that had been built on the ashes of another life of little consequence. The Distributary was everything Prisht had wanted from her life: freedom, a kind of loose community, defiance against a system that profited from the labor of slaves. And to let a man as untrustworthy as Stone leave was a dire threat to everything Prisht believed in.

"Salla Zend, this makes me very nervous," Prisht said, turning toward Salla, cup of tea in hand.

Salla could only nod.

"You threaten my _home_. My business. The lives of all my partners."

Salla paused then nodded, knowing there was no way to ignore that risk. "Yes."

Prisht took a sip of her tea, the steam rising from the cup around her nose and eyes. Quiet settled between them and Salla tamped down the urge to repeat her assurances. Prisht would come to her own conclusions in her own time and there was nothing Salla could do to change her mind.

"Is Stone necessary for _mistryka_ 's mission?" Prisht said at length.

Salla ran a hand over her mouth and nodded. "Yes."

"And is _mistryka_ 's mission in the service of freedom for beings other than herself?"

Salla nodded again without hesitation. Of course it was. The princess was quite willing to die for this payload, had proved that point many times in their brief acquaintance. And if she was willing to die for it—

"Everything she does is in the service of others," Salla said, deft confidence in her voice.

Prisht took a deep breath and nodded, the lines of anxiety obvious to Salla. "Then I release Stone into her custody. Do you need anything else?"

Salla closed her eyes, licked her lips. "Thank you, Prisht. For everything."

For being the caliber of person who would decontaminate perfect strangers, would feed them and house them for the night, would trust in her own beliefs enough to let a genuine threat to her most cherished home free. Leia Organa might be an amazing woman, a _both_ if Salla ever knew one, but so was Prisht. _Both._ Complex. Strong. Reliably moral, in their own ways. What the princess did with the rebellion, what Prisht did with her business, what Salla did with her connections? Evidence that females could be truly unparalleled beings if given the opportunity.

"And now that you mention it," Salla continued, "we could use a speeder, if you have one."


	25. The Sign on the Door

_The Sign on the Door_

* * *

Stone's directions were horribly vague, sharp turns through meandering paths. The speeder sat idle in neighborhoods of congested marketplaces in which Leia was certain side-lanes could have been used. A clear hoverlane zipped above them but they only used it twice: not because it was expedient but because there was no way to continue their trek through a dead-end.

And at the next moment they were flying past neighborhoods at Stone's word. The marketplaces were a sudden blur through the weather-shield: deep reds and proud purples mixing in furious speeds until Leia could discern nothing in their shapes. _Quick,_ Stone would say. _Quick, now: go._ Han would comply, his jaw tight and his knuckles white on the steering controls, obviously on edge but showing the barest limit of his patience as he sped through the ever-present sickly-green mist of midday on Nar Shaddaa.

Through it all, Leia's frustration mounted like bricks in a towering edifice.

She would have been less angry about Stone's wayfaring instructions if they had been in service to Prisht's safety. Their trek out of the Pii had been purposefully peripatetic to protect The Distributary's location and the privacy of the Chev's partners. Leia wanted to return Prisht's maddening assistance with discretion of their own: a favor earned for a favor given.

She deserved a zero sum game, at the very least.

But they'd long ago left the Pii; Salla had confirmed as much. Leia hadn't bothered to ask the names of the quadrants that they'd breezed through, had barely noticed Basic signs when they sat, unmoving, for long stretches at a time. The geography and city-planning of Nar Shaddaa—if indeed any planning had been done—were beyond her capacity to understand.

Instead she'd focused on strangling out the veracity of Stone's intentions from the few hints he gave or taking note of the way Salla's accent rose and disappeared in moments of stress. Sometimes her _tees_ melted into the surrounding sounds, sometimes she bit them off quick and vicious at her front teeth. It was fascinating in the same way Han's sometimes lazy drawl slid into the ether when he barked orders at others in the heat of the moment.

And when she started to think about Han, she'd lapsed into images that she'd rather not deal with at the moment and tried to suppress. _Focus,_ she'd ordered herself. _Live through this mission and you can daydream about his mouth all you want later on._

So. Business.

Salla and Leia agreed no one was following them, Salla careful in the front passenger seat and Leia annoyed in the back. They hadn't picked up a tail, and even if they _had,_ there was no way the tail had held them in sight for too long. The maniacal journey—slow slogs and quick zips, both—had insured their safety.

But _still_ they'd sidewinded through the eternal city, had dodged about the neighborhoods with no discernible direction. Frustration was voiced loud and often by Han and Chewie, who'd threatened to tear Stone's arms from their sockets for wasting their time.

 _The_ Falcon _needs us,_ he'd growled. _She has been too long without care._

The affection in his voice was dear to Leia, warming somehow, and she agreed. It was time to _do_. She was tired of waiting.

"My patience is wearing thin, Bril," she said, pitching her voice low.

" _Is?_ " Han asked. "How the hell do you have any patience left?"

 _As if I had a great store of it in the first place_ , Leia thought, amused. Either Han gave her too much credit or she was hiding her restlessness better than she thought she was.

Salla turned to look at Leia over her left shoulder. "Seconded. We're going nowhere."

Peripherally Leia noted that Salla's consonants were heavy, clear, weighted. The _dees_ and _gees_ clear signals that frustration had eliminated the assumed informality of her speech.

"Where is the spice den?" Leia asked, turning angry eyes on Stone.

He pursed thin lips, shook his head with a tight movement. "You have to trust me, Your Highness. This is the way in."

"We _don't_ trust you, pal. That's the whole point," Han argued.

Chewie's rumble came from Leia's left. _It's been three hours. You either have nothing to offer or you are actively scheming to get us caught._

"No, you don't understand," Stone said, looking confused at Chewie's long series of growls. "This is how—"

But Leia had had enough. She was raw and tired, the edges of doubt creeping into her bones. Had she misunderstood Stone's intentions? She'd thought she'd reached him through their conversation in the early morning hours, brandishing her trauma like a lightsaber. But that tactic didn't always work; she'd thought she'd chosen her path well but perhaps his sincerity hadn't been won as thoroughly as she'd imagined?

The thought only made her angrier.

"Stop wasting our time," she interrupted him, and now it was _her_ consonants that bit at her tongue. "This is not courage. This is _idiocy_."

"No, wait—"

"Enough," she said. "If this is the help you promised, we don't need it."

She needed to consider that Stone's bravery was incomplete, thin and feeble as it had always appeared to her. And if such cowardice got Salla killed, or Chewie, or Han … _well._ There was no justifying such stupidity.

"There's not a _set_ spice den!"

Leia paused, blinked, mind grounded to a halt. "What?"

"It's not an _address._ That'd be stupid of Grouka, right?" Stone said, his hands spread in front of him like he was presenting a meal to guests.

"No stupider than the rest of what you've spewed lately," Han argued.

 _That's unhelpful, Han,_ Leia thought.

Stone thought so, too, but where Leia's thoughts reflected exasperated affection, Stone's voice carried pure condescension. "Grouka's supposed to be dead, asshole. A dead Hutt can't own property."

Chewie and Leia both tensed, and in a rare dissociative moment, Leia realized who exactly made up the Han Solo Defense Society in this group. She could feel the waves of anger emanating from their side of the backseat, was powerless to tamp down the edge of fury that swept through her.

"You wanna call me _asshole_ again, coward?" Han goaded, never keen on his own defense. "Because I'm dying for some target practice and I've built up some rage the past couple of days _._ "

 _I am prepared to help,_ Chewie growled to Leia's left, and Leia nodded with enough emphasis for Stone to see.

"I would refrain from insulting the man flying the speeder, Stone." she added. "And I would not call this particular man names when you have proven yourself less-than courageous in comparison."

Stone's face drained of color. "Look, the Hutts keep a pretty good eye on the spice dens. If one was distributing without a Hutt at the helm, they'd shut it down real quick."

Leia blinked, confused. "So if there's no set den location—?"

"—it moves around," Stone finished for her. "Every two standard weeks."

Leia paused, mouth open, running the possibility through her mind for the viability of the scheme. She didn't know much about the spice trade, had only dealt with it tangentially in the Senate, but the basic business model was based on the barest possible overhead cost per gram of spice moved. Extravagant moving costs—every two weeks!—seemed antithetical to the general model. What was spent in security alone would be astronomical in comparison to owning and utilizing one duracrete building in a slum somewhere, wouldn't it?

Perhaps there was something she was missing.

Han and Salla looked at each other and then Salla turned back to look at Stone. "Every two weeks? Are you sure?"

Stone nodded. "Yeah. Product seems to get out there fast enough that they don't actually move it from den to den."

"That's because spice gets smuggled from the mines every two weeks," Han said. "If Grouka's moving every gram that he gets from the mines in those two weeks, he's a fucking genius."

"Is that possible?" Leia asked.

"Depends on how much he's bringing in," Salla said. "Theoretically, yeah, if his intake is small enough he could refine it and move his whole product every two weeks. And he clearly has multiple refinement centers if I operated out of a totally different set-up than this one."

"Not having to transport it from one den to another," Han added. "Saves shipping costs. How long has he been doing it this way?"

Stone shrugged. "Since he went underground."

Leia shook her head. "So he distributes his product from a den, cleans the place out, moves elsewhere and notifies his clients where he's going next? That's an awful lot of people who would know he's alive."

"He's not," Stone said. "They don't get orders from anyone named Grouka that Hutt."

"It makes sense. He used personal property to plant coordinates for me. I'm sure he has the credits to move around some spice now and then." Salla glanced at Han, then turned back to Stone. "So how do the smugglers know where to pick up the product?"

"A sign on a door," Stone answered.

Leia waited for more detail. When he didn't offer any, she raised an eyebrow. "Would you like to elaborate?"

Stone shrugged. "Not really."

Chewie growled beside her—angrily and defensively, though she couldn't properly translate the tone—and Han swore beneath his breath. "Leia, _please,_ let me kill him."

Leia smiled, weary and frustrated. "No."

"I'll help clean up the mess," Salla added, turning false-hopeful eyes to the backseat. "I mean, he can't weigh more than, what? Eighty-five kilos?"

"Best to round up, in my experience," Han said. "Ninety."

Their deadpan voices triggered Leia's laughter but she suppressed it. This was not a time to harass their only guide. Even if it was wickedly funny. Even if it said a great deal about how Han and Salla interacted with each other and bespoke to the layer of friendship beneath the anger and heartbreak between them.

"No," Leia repeated. "No one is killing anyone. Bril, what sign on which door are you looking for?"

Stone crossed his arms and glared at Han and Salla in the front seat. "You want me to tell those two? The ones planning on how to get rid of my body? I don't think so."

 _For the record, I would also very much like to get rid of his body,_ Chewie rumbled next to her.

She threw the Wookiee an eyeroll but quickly turned back to Stone before the coder saw it. "These three beings are more likely to kill you if you _don't_ get us to the den than if you do. And they take their orders from me—"

"—I do _what?_ "

"—Excuse me?"

"—so you can bet that if you hold up your end of the bargain, you will walk away from us intact," Leia continued over Han and Salla's exclamations.

Stone watched her carefully and she held his gaze. _Be brave,_ she mouthed to him, trying to steel his spine. The more she connected his fledgling courage to herself, the more she solidified his assistance. She knew Stone wasn't courageous by nature, she knew he was idolizing the outcome of bravery and not bravery itself. To want the valor of courage without actually _being_ courageous was despicable to her, particularly in light of the three truly courageous beings sitting in the speeder with them.

But she needed him, and she'd do whatever she needed to do to cement his assistance.

"What's the sign on the door?" she asked, low and level.

Stone's eyes slid to the side and he bit his lower lip. When he looked at her again, he shrugged. "You see the fluorescent lights above the doorways?"

"The safety lights?" Han asked.

Leia turned her head to examine the world outside the speeder. A residential area, pocketed by two marketplaces on either side of a square grid, and every doorway had a safety light installed above it. Obviously not a government regulation: the lights were all different shades and colors, of various brightnesses and located at different places. Some were carefully installed in the center of a doorway, some haphazardly to the side. Quite a few were helpfully installed directly above the door control panels.

Leia nodded. "I see them."

"The one we're looking for is standard red and it blinks," Stone said.

A pause, the only sound the rush of wind against the speeder's weathershield. Leia eyed the safety lights above door after door as Han slogged through the relentless traffic of the grid, thinking—

"That's _it?_ " Han's voice held more anger than it had earlier, a sign of his impatience and frayed nerves. "A blinking red light? Hell, half of these lights are red and _most_ of them are blinking."

Leia nodded. "He's right. Is there another marker?"

"I'll bet anything there's a specific pattern to the blinking," Salla said, and Leia's eyes shot to the woman in the front of the speeder. "Like the old Pagini code, right? Short, pause, long, long, pause, short? Shit like that?"

Stone nodded. "That's the part I'm not gonna tell you. Can't find the den if you're getting rid of my body, now, can you?"

 _Sithspawn,_ Leia thought. Stone was a wiley bastard, keeping himself indispensable for as long as possible.

She'd have to keep an eye on him.

"Fine," she said. "How do we help?"

* * *

 _Author's Note: Thank you for being patient with me during last week's sudden hiatus. Part of the danger of week-by-week writing, I suppose. I was happy to receive just a few notes about the lack of an update and most ot those were of the are-you-alive-and-if-not-where-do-I-send-the-flowers?_ _variety, which was very kind of you, my friends. Thanks for your love and support! -KR_


	26. The Den

_The Den:_

* * *

Stone found what he was looking for in a market square that should never have included a spice den. Hundreds of pedestrians walked in front of a seventeen-story eyesore, painted garish purple and with few windows. The door was durasteel and painted a sickly yellow, unpolished and muted. The expected red light above the door was spot-welded haphazardly to the left of the center of the frame. It threw the yellow paint into a red shadow, casting the door in an indecipherable mess of yellow, red and orange. Two bodegas butted up against it, their doors painted bright green.

The building spanned a square city block, one-fourth of the market perimeter. Three other buildings surrounded the market: taller and more consistent with the normal drabness of Nar Shaddaa. The market itself was busy, people scurrying between vendors with quick steps and careless anger. The air felt frenzied, impermanent: like a traveling side-show act. Something of a spectacle to be used for one's needs and then forgotten.

Not a single centimeter of their destination was nondescript. It was the opposite of Prisht's heavy emphasis on sterility and monotone. When Prisht chose _quiet_ , Grouka's temporary spice den chose _loud_ and Han could make little sense of it.

Too many people around: too many witnesses. Too recognizable: too deviant from the surrounding buildings. It was the most obnoxious thing on the street except perhaps the drunken Gamorrean that snarled nonsense at passersby. If Grouka was aiming for a low profile, this certainly was not it.

"If this isn't a trap, I don't know what is," Han muttered to himself, eyeing the blinking light with suspicion.

"It's _not_ a trap," Stone said, almost a grumble. "How many times do I have to say that?"

Han shrugged and ignored that statement, because the answer would always be _one more time._ He didn't trust Stone, didn't like his attitude, didn't trust that Leia's words had been all that convincing. To normal people, yeah, Leia was like a walking advertisement for the Alliance. But this kid wasn't normal. He had too little substance to be his own man and too much knowledge to reasonably be just a coder for a crime lord.

It itched at Han's skin like sand. He hated it. _Hated._

Han flew around the building three more times, trying to find a good place to stash the loaned speeder until they got what Leia wanted and blasted the hell out of dodge. He found a red debris compactor—like the one in the Shocks where he'd found Leia one morning at least half a lifetime ago—and slid the speeder to a stop in its shadow.

With a mocking hand, he indicated the ridiculous building behind them. "Ladies and gentlebeings, I present to you: our death."

"So dramatic," Stone said, and this was definitely a grumble. "Take a seat and chill out, old man."

" _Old_ —?" Han's hand twitched, but one look at Salla's shrug made him rethink punching Stone. He cleared his throat instead. "How many exits does this bad idea have?"

"One," Stone said.

Salla shook her head. "Of course there's only one. It'd be a stroke of luck to have two. A goddamned miracle to have three."

A miracle that they hadn't had yet on this infernal moon. Han was not about to assume the tide would change now. Not with Chewie's life on the line, or Salla's. And definitely not Leia's. She could lead him into the mouth of hell itself and he'd follow her without a second thought.

Maybe with a few choice words about it, he admitted to himself. But he'd definitely follow, nonetheless.

"What about security?" Leia spoke up from the backseat.

Stone turned to look at her, eyes softening considerably. "Shouldn't be any. The only people who know about the sign on the door are people who work for Grouka."

"Even if they don't know it," Han added. "So who stays with the speeder?"

The group quieted, all thinking the same thing. Someone needed to remain outside the den to keep their exit clean. Nothing worse than having your speeder stolen when you needed it most. Han himself had stolen the first speeder they'd flown on Nar Shaddaa. Unguarded items tended to go missing in this place.

The most logical choice was Leia, not because she couldn't defend herself but because she was the most unfamiliar with spice dens in the group. And in typical Leia fashion, she knew it.

"Well, _I'm_ going in," she said, voice challenging anyone who might disagree. "I'm getting those coordinates."

But Han knew Leia well enough to know that there was no point in challenging her. The last time he'd done that, she'd gone off in a huff and found the badge all on her own.

"Then I go, too," he said.

 _Where they go, I go,_ Chewie growled.

Han shook his head at the predictable response but noted with interest the plural _they._ "And we need Dumbassas a guide, so it looks like you're it, Sal."

Salla tilted her head thoughtfully, then made a show of lifting her feet onto the console in front of her and crossing her ankles in mock-relaxation. "Great," she said, and put her hands behind her head. "I could use a nap."

Han snorted under his breath but got out of the speeder, tossing a quick _good night_ at her as the group assembled at the mouth of the alley. He took a moment to inspect each of his people, noting the blaster on Leia's hip and Chewie's bowcaster.

"You hiding any weapons?" he asked Stone. "Because now's a good time for us to take stock."

Stone turned incredulous eyes on him. "You think I left The Distributary with anything like that? You think I left my _flat_ with anything like that?"

 _You left your flat with an attitude,_ Chewie chimed in and Han blinked when he heard Leia laugh quietly beside him.

 _Language lessons must be kicking in big time,_ he thought.

"No secrets between you two now, huh?" he muttered to them, then turned back to Stone. "Chewie asked if you know how to fight."

 _I did not,_ Chewie growled.

But Stone clearly didn't understand the Wookiee and answered Han's mistranslated question instead. "I can take care of myself," he said. "Don't worry about me."

"It's not _you_ I'm worried about," Han said, then turned and strode out of the alley and into the pedestrian walkway outside the awful kaleidoscope building.

He passed the nearest bodega and reached for the door controls,stopping only when a slim, dirty hand reached between him and the hand scanner. " _Idiot,_ " Stone murmured, and put his own palm on the scanner instead. "You really think you could just walk in?"

Han had, actually. The spice dens he'd visited—to deliver, never to use himself—had all had security of the _goons with grenades_ type. But Stone himself was a coder; clearly Grouka used technology differently than Jabba did.

And it suddenly occurred to Han to ask himself how Stone knew about the spice network in the first place.

"Hey," he whispered. "How come you have access to this place?"

Stone took a step back as the door _swished_ open, raised an eyebrow. "Who do you think rigged the security system here?"

Han's bad feeling tripled, the hairs on the back of his neck rising until his whole body was chills and adrenaline. _Get outta here,_ it seemed to tell him. _Not safe! Something is wrong!_

But then he turned to look at his companions, at Leia, who was already stepping through the door after Stone, and realized that he had no choice. She was in no mood to let this lead go.

"Wait," he said, grabbing her wrist. "Between me and Chewie."

She wanted to fight him on it, he could tell. But he wasn't going to risk her life unnecessarily and she was quantifiably out of her element here. Han and Chewie knew what the spice trade looked like up close: apparently Stone did, too. Leia did not.

She paused and then gave one short nod, stepping aside to let him into the den before her.

Low lights in a dark room; the faint odor of old food and stale, unwashed clothing. Han's boots were loud on a tiled floor and he could hear a distant cough from outside the building. The air was heavy, like the feeling of many bodies crammed into a tight space but Han couldn't see beings in the room. He made a deliberately loud stomp on the tile, heard the echo bounce around a nearly-empty room and exhaled in mild relief.

Han narrowed his eyes to watch the line of Stone's form ahead of him. "Looks abandoned."

"It's not abandoned—"

A brilliant white light flooded the room and Han had to blink and shield his eyes until they adjusted. He heard a gasp from behind him and a roar near the door, and then a deep voice issued from the far end of the room.

"Bril Stone," the voice said and Han struggled to discern the outline of a massive form in front of him. "Why have you come?"

Han's heart sank, the feeling of a lead weight plummeting into his stomach. On instinct, he reached out and held his arms protectively in front of Leia. The watery shape in front of him wavered and solidified and Han's eyes confirmed what the voice had already suggested.

"Grouka," Stone whispered.


	27. Grouka the Hutt

_Grouka the Hutt_

* * *

 _Grouka,_ Stone's voice echoed in Leia's ear, soft and low. _Grouka. Grouka._

If the moon of Nar Shaddaa manifested into a sentient creature, she imagined it would look something like Grouka the Hutt. He was large, imposing, slow in his movements but confident all the same. Bulbous eyes in a face of leather and slime. A gaping mouth cut from folds of skin: a rasp of a voice, paper-thin and grating. He was enormous, easily five times Leia's size, and the air around him was heavy on her skin. Her heart pounded in her chest and her eyes widened, trying to take in every detail of the scene while furiously seeking clarity and escape.

The Hutt moved into the light of the harsh glow-lamp above their heads, six meters away from their small group. Movement was deliberate, the weight of an overfed body teetering on … whatever it was Hutts used as mobility devices. A hoverlift? Small legs?

Leia didn't know. She'd never met a Hutt. The closest she'd ever come to one was a holocall when she'd been a silent member of the galactic trade committee in the Imperial Senate. Her role then had been passive: the negotiations had been futile and weak, the chairwoman skittish and deferential. All Leia had gleaned from the episode had been a stark realization that people feared the Hutts.

 _Slavers,_ she thought. _Spice dealers. Those who profit from the misery of others. Evil and corrupt._

It wasn't his size that made Leia despise Grouka the Hutt. It was what he stood for. What he espoused. What he and his brethren had done to the helpless beings on this moon for generations. When fighting the evil of the Empire—the rotted figure of Darth Vader, in particular—she was at the very least fighting one who believed in what he fought for. Vader was psychotic, of course; he embraced torture and genocide as valid methods of interrogation. But at the very least there was a larger entity for which he fought.

The Hutts? They believed in nothing but their own self-interest.

Her fear turned rank, boiled into anger: dark and crackling. Her fingertips twitched and the sudden, overwhelming wave that swept over her was _power._ True and unbridled. She didn't question it, didn't hesitate in embracing the feeling. If this was adrenaline, she'd use it to her advantage.

Han shifted to the right, obscuring her view of Grouka, vying for a more protective position. She watched the strong, broad line of his back, the stretch of fabric against muscle, and worked hard to shield him from her blistering anger.

 _Do you think you can hide me. Han?_ she thought. _Do you think he doesn't have blaster sights on me, too?_

She sidestepped him, twisting out of his shadow for a full view of the being they'd been pursuing on this moon for the past two days. She'd heard nothing but stories of vileness and ruin since before Rieekan had told her that a Hutt intermediary was working with Targeter, since she'd agreed that enviro-stabilizers were necessary for the continued survival of their small rebellion.

 _I am not afraid,_ she realized. _I am not helpless._

Power. A heady feeling of recklessness and confidence. She was not afraid to die, she was not afraid of _anything._ She felt like the coding of the universe ran through her veins. Gravity, physics, the connections between matter and sound and light: it shone brightly for her in this unfathomable rush of adrenaline.

"I will only ask you once more, Stone: why have you come?" the Hutt asked, his voice thin and underused.

"I … uh, I had to—"

"You speak Basic," Han interrupted. Leia wasn't sure if it was to give Stone time to think or because Han legitimately couldn't help blurting out the first thought that came into his head. "Why?"

Leia frowned but didn't say anything. From her periphery, she could see that Han still stood with his arms outstretched, believing she was behind him. _Oh Han,_ she thought with the last of her heart. _You can't protect me from this._ Some dormant happiness smiled at his instinct to shield her from harm, however misguided.

"Grouka, I didn't know… I wouldn't have brought them here if I'd known…" Stone mumbled, trailing off as his words died on his tongue.

"Who are you?" the Hutt asked, ignoring Stone and peering at Han, Leia and Chewie with interest. His words moved as slowly as his body did, thick and heavy, and Leia realized that Basic was not his native tongue. In the committee holocall from years ago, the Hutt had not spoken at all, the terms relayed through an aide. At the time Leia had thought it the kind of power play many autocrats used, to have others speak for him as if his time was too precious to be bothered with negotiation.

 _This is not good,_ Chewie rumbled on Han's other side. _This is a very poor development._

"No shit," Han mumbled under his breath. "Chewie, get her out of here."

Leia knew who the _her_ was, knew that it came from a place of fear for her safety. She could easily see the progression of Han's fears playing out in real-time: her bounty was astronomical in comparison to his own. And while Grouka would only kill Han, the Hutt would be a fool to not immediately call the nearest Moff and arrange transport for a valuable political commodity. Even if it meant exposing that the Hutt was still alive. Even if it meant jeopardizing the spice den system he'd carefully built from beyond his own grave.

That's how much the Empire valued her very public execution.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said, eyes on the Hutt but not missing the startled look Han gave her when he realized she wasn't standing behind him anymore. "We can still get what we want."

"They're smugglers," Stone answered the Hutt, louder than them all, drowning out their conversation. "They jumped me. Set my flat on fire. Forced me to take them here."

Leia clenched her fists, unsure where Stone's allegiance lay in this situation. The tremor in his voice was obvious, the fear that radiated off him like heat from a star, but…

He'd _lied._ They were not here as smugglers. He knew very well who they were and why they were here and wouldn't it have been easier for Stone to give them up? To save his own skin? _Here are beings who can make you incomprehensibly richer than you already are: two smugglers indebted to your worst enemy and a princess with the power to make good with the Imperials._

But that wasn't what he'd done. He'd characterized them as petty criminals, the kind of being who belonged in this environment. She hesitated to call it _courage_ —if Grouka knew the full story, Stone would be killed anyway—but Stone's lie at least gave them a little time to survive this encounter.

Leia's brain leapt into action. Who were they? What did they want? Furious energy kick-started her reasoning, from feeling to thinking and back again, paths diverging in countless ways. How to pull Grouka's security from the shadows? How to use their weapons? How to get the coordinates before a firefight broke out and their chances of survival went from fractional to zero? Moving pieces, if _this_ then _that,_ strategy whirling around her neurons like a hurricane.

And then her brain stopped, the solution presenting itself not from thinking at all, but from the depths of the angry adrenaline, from a place of _feeling._

"I work for Jabba the Hutt," she heard herself say, the words unexpected but so unbelievably _right_ that she felt herself smile. "And these two beings are his gift to you."

Leia was no Jedi but she could almost feel Han's perplexity, his complete shock at her statement. This was nothing they'd discussed, nothing they'd ever anticipated, and Leia could imagine the shake-down she'd get from Han about her going rogue on him.

But …. Wasn't hers the kind of strategy Nar Shaddaa called for? Wasn't it exactly how they'd survived every damn complication this mission had thrown at them so far? Pure luck and following hunches?

And she only needed to waste enough time for Salla to realize something had gone wrong and come storming in. Leia wasn't entirely sure what Grouka's security detail looked like—no one else had come in or out of the room since they'd entered but the shadows were deep and she didn't trust those dark corners to save her life—but they needed another blaster on Grouka before they could get what they wanted. Han's DL-44, her holdout, Chewie's bowcaster and Salla's rifle: they needed them all if they expected to get any leverage on the Hutt.

" _Jabba_ ," Grouka spat the name. "Jabba doesn't know I'm alive. No one knows."

Leia channeled Salla: arms outstretched, head tilted to the side. The picture of nonchalance and capability. " _I_ figured it out, didn't I?"

The Hutt seemed to consider this, eyes narrowing and mouth closing into a hidden line beneath folds of skin. Leia took the opportunity to step in front of Han and Chewie, turning a quick, silent look to them both: an entreaty to trust her and stay vigilant. Han's eyes burned, angry and hot, but he remained quiet, and Leia wrapped herself in his trust, following the unidentifiable feeling that whatever it was she was doing was the only way to survive this encounter.

"How?" Grouka said. "Tell me how you knew where I was."

Leia turned to face the Hutt, crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. If she took her physical cues from Salla, she took her conversational ones from Chewie. The Wookiee left most of what he said unintelligible to everyone but his small circle of friends. _Opaque,_ her brain supplied, and she followed his example. If it wasn't necessary to the conversation, it didn't need to be understood.

"What does Jabba want?" Grouka tried again.

"Nothing at the moment," she said. "This is more of a ... courtesy call."

"Intimidation. He wants me to know he knows I'm alive."

Leia let the Hutt's assertion stand with a simple shrug. "It's above my pay grade. I was hired to deliver, not to guess motives."

Leia heard Han shift behind her, the heels of his boots scraping against the tile. Chewie was silent behind her: Stone to her left, trembling and wide eyes turned in her direction.

 _What am I doing?_ She felt a stab of indecision, her brain trying to inject logic into her plans. _How can I possibly make this work?_

She knew nothing about Hutt politics, nothing about the game she had jumped into playing. Chewie was clearly sporting his bowcaster and Han's blaster was strapped to his thigh: it was insane to believe she'd brought them here as prizes. There was no logic here, no reason to fabricate an unnecessary story. Leia was so far out of her depth that she couldn't even _see_ the surface, the water rising and threatening to drown them all—

"Who are they?" Grouka rasped, and motioned with a comically-small hand into the shadows.

Power bloomed in her chest like fire, like an explosion of heat, and the questioning voice in her head was silenced. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her low-slung crew-pants, trying for the unconcerned air of Salla Zend in negotiation mode _._

"Jabba's best smugglers: Han Solo and Chewbacca," she answered.

She kept an eye on the shadows, watched Grouka's security step into the barest reaches of the glow-lamp above her head. Counted five in total. Han could take two, Chewie could take two, and it would be best if Salla could take the last so that Leia could put her hold-out blaster on Grouka himself, but in a worst case scenario, Leia could take out the last on her own—

Grouka stepped back, ostensibly to give his security team room to operate, but continued to question Leia. "Jabba was eager to kill them himself, the last that I heard. Why give them to me?"

"I don't ask questions." she said.

"You should have asked that one."

Leia smiled, a dark smile she had learned in the halls of Imperial City, one that had stopped a few senators cold when they tried to underestimate her. Small, young Leia Organa, so unaccustomed to working in the filth of Nar Shaddaa but no stranger to speaking truth to power. _I have faced down Wilhuff Tarkin with my whole world on the line. I have lied to Darth Vader._

 _You do not scare me._

"This conversation ends in ten seconds, Grouka," she said, smile gleaming and predatory. "I get paid either way."

The security detail stepped closer, illuminated by the glow-lamp. Closer and closer, three humans and two Gamorreans. Leia didn't turn her smile away from Grouka—a power play she couldn't afford to lose—but their slow, careful movements made it clear they, like Grouka, didn't exactly know how to treat her small group. Would they apprehend all of them or only Han and Chewie? She didn't honestly know.

"Uh, Prin—ma'am," Stone said from her left. "What are you doing?"

"Quiet," she commanded. "This is between me and him."

One breath. Two. She counted footsteps in her peripheral vision, saw Stone shoot her a terrified look. Chewie rumbled, low growls she couldn't translate. The encroaching security detail took small steps into the light, crossing the line out of the shadows, their blasters suddenly quite clear. She rolled her weight onto the balls of her feet and then back on her heels, a testing move, a way to gauge the floor while still in character.

Another breath, her eyes trained on Grouka. The security detail was close enough for hand-to-hand combat. Every part of her brain screamed for her to move, that they were close enough, that a delayed reaction could cost them their lives.

But she didn't move, power thrumming through her chest, like electricity under her skin. Adrenaline told her to wait, that her patience now would reap dividends later. A lock of hair fell into her eyes and Leia could just imagine herself: disheveled and daring, smiling at a Hutt as if he were nothing more than an inconvenience instead of the very-probable cause of her demise.

 _Wait,_ the voice said. _Just another moment. Wait._

"Take them," Grouka said, a rasp from his scalpel-incision mouth with one long blink of gigantic, careless eyes. "Take them _all._ "

The galaxy exploded into sensation: noises and sights and the hurried, tangible air of motion, of molecules spinning and atmosphere being displaced. A crash at the door, a searing light, a Wookiee war cry of joyous rage—

—And Leia raised her blaster, let her smile turn sour and pulled the trigger on Grouka the Hutt.


	28. Fight

_Fight_

* * *

Leia's vision tunnelled, rays of light tightening, _tightening,_ into narrow beams. She heard Salla come through the front door, she felt the heat of blaster bolts zip by her skin. Chaos surrounded her on all sides, kinetic energy buzzed with shouts and movement, the heady feeling of activity in the air around her.

But Leia was not focused on the blaster bolts or the energy. She was focused on the body of the Hutt she'd killed: his eyes wide open, unblinking, the neat blaster burn between them. She felt her adrenaline leave her with a visceral rip, felt her muscles clamp down, felt her forehead break out in sweat. Her breath felt hollow, her chest felt tight.

This was not an attack of conscience. She trusted herself enough to know Grouka would have killed them all if she had not killed him first. His death was justified. She would go through the process of forgiving herself for his murder when she next had a moment to pray, to mourn, to reflect. She was very familiar with the ritual.

But this… this was sorrow of another sort; she'd killed Grouka before he could give her the coordinates she so desperately needed.

The emptiness was acute. She needed to move, needed to escape, needed to help her friends survive this disastrous encounter. But the nothingness in her chest weighed her down. Funny, that nothingness had weight in such a moment.

She blinked but did not move. She breathed in the fire of the air around her but didn't seek shelter.

A hand on her elbow, a fierce tug as someone ran by her, a whisper against her ear. _The safe upstairs. One-three-three-one-six-two-six-nine-one._

Leia snapped into focus, the narrow beam expanding and the nothingness in her chest dissipating in a fiery bloom of activity. She dove to her right, hit the ground at a quick roll, and brought up her holdout blaster, ready to continue the fight.

* * *

Han lost coherent thought the minute Salla busted through the door and began firing. Instinct took charge: the whip-crackle edge of life and death and the glittering ease of violence. _Kill or be killed,_ millennia-old reflex, the effortlessness of long practice in a galaxy that just plain _didn't care._

His hand dropped to his blaster and his bolts flew, one into the neck of the closest guard and the next into his chest. He squeezed the trigger one more time for safety's sake and then turned to his next target, a porcine-faced Gamorrean.

The Gamorrean's shots went wild, blaster bolts hitting the wall behind Han. He pivoted to avoid the last bolt before the Gamorrean's blaster jammed with an audible glitch. Han brought his blaster up, ready to finish him off but stopped with a loud Wookiee growl.

 _Cub, your left!_ Chewie roared, and Han jerked to the right to avoid a meat-fisted punch intended for his chin.

Han bared his teeth at the human, pissed that Chewie had had to warn him. Han hadn't seen the guard at all, too focused on the Gamorrean. He'd never particularly enjoyed fistfights—much easier and cleaner to shoot one's enemies than mess with blood and teeth—and the fact that his group was surrounded but for Salla angered him. Could one blasted thing go right for them? Just _one?_

"C'mon," he said to the guard as she prowled closer. "A suckerpunch? Have a little class, lady."

She was wide and athletic, big boots hitting the floor tile in monstrous thuds. And while Han backpedalled to give himself room, he was quite ready to finish her off the quick way. He lifted his blaster and pulled the trigger—

—only to have the DL-44 knocked out of his hand by the Gamorrean he'd been hassling with before. Han grunted and pivoted, landing a solid punch. The pig went down with a crash and Han turned to see the other guard lunge for his discarded blaster. Han hopped to his left, bracing his left foot protectively over his blaster, knowing if she managed to grab it his life would get infinitely more difficult.

Luck was on his side. In the process of kneeling to grab his blaster, she didn't see him move. With a speed that surprised even him, he swung his back foot forward and kicked her in the mouth. She reared back, not falling to the ground but stunned, and that was all the opportunity Han needed. With a quick drop to his stomach, he grabbed the blaster, aimed and fired in the space of a heartbeat, hitting her in the side. She went down completely, a heavy groan on her lips.

Han exhaled and hopped to his feet. Chewie had blown another Gamorrean into the front wall of the den and was aiming his bowcaster at a human. Salla knelt near the door, one knee down, covering the exit as she stuck her right foot into the crease between floor and wall. Han guessed she was keeping the door open. Thank the stars for Salla.

And Leia … Leia was doing what Leia did best.

She was fighting on the other side of the room, next to the lilting body of Grouka the Hutt. The mob boss was hunched to the left, eyes open and unblinking, mouth agape. A neat blaster burn between his eyes. _Dead as dead can be._

Han hadn't seen it—he'd been closer to the door and distracted by Salla's grand entrance—but the last time he'd taken stock, Leia'd had her blaster on Grouka. He allowed himself a quick shake of the head, ferocious pride lifting his mouth into a corkscrew smile, and tried to find the princess in the edges of the glow-lamp's shadow.

He caught her form in enough time to see a guard grab her from behind. With instinctive need flying through his veins, he took one, two, _three_ steps toward her before he heard a decidedly unprincess-like grunt and saw the guard on the ground in front of her. Smile still in place, he stopped walking, leaned to the left and shot the guard on the ground in front of her in the leg.

The guard howled and Leia turned her head toward Han, startled. With a harsh breath she yelled to be heard over the commotion of the room. "Mind your own business, flyboy," she said.

"You _are_ my business, Your Worship," he fired back.

Leia almost smiled— _almost_ —and opened her mouth for a reply when her expression changed. With a heavy breath, she lunged for the wounded guard's leg, ripped a vibroblade from its sheath and hurled it at Han.

He ducked, hands hitting the ground in front of him as the blade flew over his head. Han jerked to look behind him, breathless from the drop to the ground, watching with horror as the blade nicked a human guard's shoulder, a glancing blow but one that made him pause in his tracks.

"Damn it," Leia said, and for some reason that made Han laugh.

 _Can't win 'em all, sweetheart._

Han shook his head and shot the guard, watching as he landed in a heap on the ground. He paused, listened keenly for the sounds of a fight: the groaning, blaster whines or indelible _smack_ of flesh hitting flesh. When he counted to ten without any such sounds, he offered up a quick question.

"Everyone okay?"

"Fine," Salla yelled by the door.

 _Alive,_ Chewie growled.

"I'm okay," Leia said and then moved to crouch before the guard Han had shot. "This one's alive, too."

Han pushed up from the ground, swung glaring eyes around the room. "Stone?"

"Out the door the second the blasters started firing," Salla answered as she slumped to the floor. "Ten creds says he nabbed the speeder, too."

Han rolled his eyes. "What a surprise," he deadpanned. "No one could have guessed that one."

 _He lied for us,_ Chewie growled from the center of the room. _Grouka would have killed us immediately if he hadn't._

"Big deal," Han said. "One lie and he's a hero, huh?"

One brave action did not make someone brave. One moment of moral clarity was not enough to rid oneself of all sins. He should know better than anyone; even if his choice to come back to Yavin 4 had redeemed him in the eyes of some, it clearly hadn't done anything to redeem his criminal past. He was _still_ running from Jabba. That stain was on him and a good deed didn't wipe it up.

But Chewie was clearly more impressed than Han was. _No, not a hero. But he kept his promise to get us in._

"He brought us here to _die,_ pal. For all we know, he knew where Grouka was hiding and was leading us into a trap."

"He didn't know. He was just as surprised as the rest of us," Leia said from the corner.

Han pointed a finger at her, angry despite himself. "Yeah, _surprised._ You and I need to talk about surprises sometime, sweetheart. I didn't like all that _turning-my-friends-over-to-a-crime-boss_ business."

Leia had the sense to look chagrined. "Later. Han, come with me. Chewie, Salla: guard the door."

And without another thought, she moved into the nearest dark corner, her silhouette melting into the shadows. Han murmured a low _damn it_ and followed, because Force knew he'd follow her anywhere.

* * *

 _A/N: You're probably thinking, "Kay Arr, stop with the plot and hup-to on the making-out". And all I can do is beg you to trust me. Hang in there. We're so close. I got your back, fam. -KR_


	29. Shifts

_Shifts_

* * *

They found the staircase in the third corner they searched, shrouded in darkness and dust. Lined with broken glass and the smell of stale alcohol, the staircase was narrow and felt brittle to Leia, like too much weight would collapse the whole structure. Ancient: a clear remnant of a much older time. She stepped with quick caution, watching the line of Han's back in the steps above her.

He'd insisted he go first, afraid there was some kind of trap though there was no indication anyone had been on the stairs in months. When she'd argued, planting hands on her hips and preparing to debate him into the ground, he'd tilted his head, raised his eyebrows and lunged for the stairs without further argument.

In the midst of the terror and stress of the last half-hour, Leia had laughed. _At least he's consistent_ , she thought. _You always know what to expect with Han Solo._

The dark above her soon gave way to a low glow as the staircase opened into a cluttered, musty room. Leia stepped to Han's right in the landing, standing side-by-side with him as they examined the space in front of them.

A high window shed light in a pool on the floor. Duracrete walls rose to a high, flat ceiling: imposing and cavernous. The room was divided into four square sections, looking for all the world like living quarters. The square to her right contained a wide bed-frame with a mattress, sheets, a portable storage chest and what looked like a small, forgotten glow-lamp. Two squares were overflowing their small cubicle walls with clothing and furniture. A large durasteel desk took up most of the fourth square, a feature that looked like it belonged on an Imperial star cruiser rather than in a hidden room above a spice den.

"What do you think?" Han asked. His voice echoed in the dull air, bouncing wall-to-wall, leaving an uneven hush across the dust.

Leia coughed, tasting old cigarillo smoke. "He said there was a safe in here, gave me the code. We just need to find it."

Han's head whipped to look at her. "He _who?"_

"Stone," she said. "He told me as he ran at the start of the firefight downstairs."

The whisper against her ear, the hand on her elbow. Stone's last-minute good deed, the redemption he so dearly wanted but couldn't bring himself to accomplish. Courage was a spectrum, her father had often said, and one shouldn't disparage another for their smaller acts of bravery. There were cowards and heroes and an enormous pool of beings in the middle.

Leia hadn't quite aligned herself with Bail's perspective. She didn't believe in destiny but _did_ believe in choice: someone always had the option to be courageous. Those missed opportunities were precisely how the Old Republic had fallen, how corruption had taken hold of an entire galactic government. Not one man, not one bad person, had torn down goodness. Courage had been lost in small steps along the way, building into a situation in which heart and bravery had been nearly snuffed out. The Alliance's ranks were full to bursting with it, the last vestige of gumption the galaxy had to offer in such tremulous times.

She'd often wondered if a Luke Skywalker could exist if a Darth Vader didn't. Would someone with Luke's compassion and total goodness be possible if a foil as villainous as the Dark Lord didn't live? Was there one well of courage from which they were all forged, a balance between the right and the wrong that must be maintained at all times?

Leia didn't want to believe that, either.

But then there was Stone: apathetic to the larger fight. One who needed to be coerced into helping. One who dreamed of the courage of a Han Solo but never seemed to find the strength within himself to actually do anything courageous. Opportunities had presented themselves and he had turned away every time, the needs of others barely a blip on his scanners. The opposite of Luke wasn't Vader … wasn't it _Stone?_ Unmoving, unconcerned?

Somewhere on the spectrum but nowhere near the top?

Yet Stone had made a choice to help. Stone had _done_ something, not for the glory of it but because it was the right thing to do. He'd shown the barest flicker of bravery when it mattered most, though the flame died out when he escaped without them. A choice. Perhaps not the _right one,_ but a good one nonetheless.

Leia knew Han would find a way to discourage her from following Stone's information. She knew he'd run to his usual corner of cynicism and believe the coder had set them up, had sacrificed them for his own survival. But her father had been right: bravery was a spectrum. Stone lived squarely in the middle and though he fell short of the courage of the rest of his companions, he had made one good decision. No Luke Skywalker, but no Darth Vader, either. And if she refused to believe in the existence of the middle, the vast majority of beings, how was she ever going to accomplish her life's work?

She would trust Stone. She'd honor his small courageous act and hope he continued to grow wherever he was now.

Han's jaw dropped in her silence, eyes widening as he swung an index finger in her direction. His eyes glinted in the musty light and Leia was distracted by the charming way his hair stuck up at the back of his head: the only indication that he'd recently been fighting for his life.

"You didn't think to share that before now?" he asked.

"Would you have believed me?"

"No," he said. His word was flat and sure. "I don't believe it now."

She reached down, grabbed his hand, squeezed it with all the patronizing energy she knew he hated. "Someday someone's going to convince you not to underestimate people."

Leia moved to the left, crossing in front of Han to step into the quarter of the room with the out-of-place desk. She didn't miss the soft _damn well already have_ he muttered under his breath and she didn't try to hide the flicker of a smile on her face before she knelt down to examine the desk. When they had a moment to breathe, when they weren't in danger of being killed by Hutts or Chev or whomever else was on their tails now, she resolved to press him again about taking her offer to stay with the Alliance. Big shifts had occurred here, changes had been made. Maybe now they could strike a deal, maybe now he would commit to staying.

Maybe now this spark between them could be fanned into a flame.

She shook her head, dispelling the tempting thought, and slid her hand against the underside of the durasteel desk's writing surface. Slick and smooth, the durasteel was noticeably free of the dust of the rest of the room, a fact that made her heart beat faster.

"Someone's been here recently," she observed.

Footsteps on the floor: the warmth of a large body looming over hers. "Desk's kind of an obvious place to put a safe, isn't it?"

She reared back, looked up at him as he towered over her. "You think this is a trap, too?"

He pressed his lips together. "Hell, what do I know? I've thought this whole thing was a trap from the beginning."

She ducked under the desk again, turned to brush her fingertips against its inner ledge. "You haven't been wrong _,_ exactly," she said. "Can you check the other side for me, please? See if you see a hidden compartment or a vacuum seal or anything of the kind?"

"Not wrong," he agreed, moving to the opposite edge of the desk. "We'd be a whole lot safer right now if you'd've listened to me but you never do."

"We wouldn't have left _Home One_ if I'd listened to you." Leia knocked on the durasteel in front of her, four quick raps against the metal sheeting. "Does this sound hollow to you?"

Han mimicked her raps in a circle, starting at the center and moving outwards in concentric spirals. Leia listened for the distinct echoing sound of hollowness, the empty vacuum of an air bubble in the metal behind her hand. The quick knocking moved from the center, organized and methodical, until it reached the upper right hand corner of the inner leg of the desk where Leia's hand was pressed against the durasteel.

"It sounds normal to me—oh, _hell_ ," he muttered.

Four final raps confirmed it: a hollow niche in the durasteel in the upper right-hand corner of the desk. Small, only a few centimeters square: easy to miss if one wasn't careful.

"Right," she said, nodding in satisfaction. "Find me a glow-lamp?"

Han left the outer side of the desk, his bootfalls loud as he wandered around the room. Leia peered into the dark space beside her hand, trying to see indications of a small, secret stash in the durasteel beneath her fingers. She couldn't see it, couldn't feel it either, but the sound was unmistakable to her half-trained ear. And she knew for a fact that Han knew what to listen for when finding hollow bubbles in otherwise dense objects. She'd seen him suss out similarly hidden spaces in the past.

Nanotech had exploded in the blackmarket of late, the need rising for absolute, fortified hiding spots as the Imperials consolidated power. Documents needed to be hidden: people, too. It wasn't a market in which the Empire wanted to invest and so underworld characters had taken the reins. It didn't surprise her that the Hutts had access to undetectable safes. If she hadn't known to look for one, she never would have found it.

 _Thank you, Bril Stone,_ she thought.

"Here," Han said, shoving a too-large glow-lamp under the desk. "If this thing blows up on you, I want it on the record that I told you so."

"Your warning is noted," she said, gritting her teeth. "Hold it steady."

She turned on the glow-lamp and blinked back tears at the sudden brightness of her tiny space. When her eyes focused again, she peered into the the durasteel around her hand, curious if the light might make a difference.

"I don't see anything," she said. "Can you bring the lamp closer?"

"Sithspawn," he muttered. She caught his grunt as he kneeled on the ground to bring the glow-lamp further under the desk. "How the hell are you fitting in there? It's like a womp-rat nest and those things fucking small."

Leia turned an exasperated look toward Han. He was barely visible behind the glow-lamp's light. "I'm small, too, Han. I'm sorry if you didn't notice."

She heard a muffled laugh and the glow-lamp shook in his hands. Leia allowed herself a quick smile, then refocused on the desk.

The glow-lamp's light didn't help her see any breaks in the durasteel. No outlines of hidden compartments, no seams where a safe could be hidden. She sighed, ready to move on in her search. She lifted her hand from the durasteel and pressed it into the ground by her hip, ready to scoot out from under the desk, when she caught a glimmer above the area where her hand had been.

"What the—?" she asked, and leaned forward.

Soft, blue letters hovered millimeters from the durasteel she'd covered with her hand. Holo-projected, she believed, and only visible without her flesh-and-bone hand in the way.

"Han," she murmured. "I think I found it."

* * *

Han could barely keep up with Leia as she scrambled down the stairs. She dove down the staircase with a fervor she usually reserved for firefights, dodging the debris cluttering the steps like she was running a Caridian obstacle course. He tried to stay close to her, still unsure whether or not this building might be hiding some nasty surprises. But Leia… Leia ran like a woman possessed, like her life depended on it.

"Chewie! Salla!" she cried, once they emerged from the dark staircase. "They're _here._ "

 _Who?_ Chewie roared, loud and furious. _Who is here?_

Han saw the Wookiee's narrowed eye, the clenching of the fist on the bowcaster's handle, the straightening of his spine. He recognized immediately the physical signs that Chewie felt trapped, that stress had torn through his patience like a blaster bolt. Misunderstanding Leia's excited comment for a threat against his humans was enough to trigger Chewie's meaner side.

Han hurried to dispel the imagined threat.

"The heaters, pal," he answered, stepping into the glow-lamp's light. "Don't get all excited on us."

The Wookiee paused, exhaled, and groaned out his remaining fears. The sound was sad and Han had to work to ignore the flicker of regret that bloomed in his chest. _Poor guy,_ he thought. _No trees. No big black of space. No wonder he's a little trigger-happy._

Salla and Chewie stood on either side of the door, arms crossed in identical poses of skepticism. The image was almost funny, but taken in the context of the moaning, injured man on the ground and the lilting body of Grouka the Hutt on what he could clearly see was a hoverchair, Han was in no mood to laugh.

"I'm sorry. They're _what?_ " Salla asked.

Han stepped further into the light, further into Leia's space. He didn't trust the guard behind him for a second, injured though he might be.

"We found the coordinates," Han answered Salla. "They're on Nar Shaddaa."

"A block away from here," Leia added. "In a warehouse."

 _You must be kidding,_ Chewie growled.

"Why would Grouka keep them so close? They're enviro-stabilizers, for fuck's sake, not spice," Salla asked.

Han nodded. "We think Grouka meant to sell the heaters to your _mutual friends_ … until he found out who those friends actually were."

"He was trying to bring _you_ in, Salla," Leia said. " _You_ warned us about Grouka and the Imperials. _You_ took us to the Shocks, to Stone. Grouka must have figured out you were working with the Alliance and kept the heaters close by as a trap set for you."

"It's a damn good thing you stayed in the speeder when we came in," Han added. "Leia's little playacting did the trick. He didn't know who we were at all."

Salla turned a narrow-beamed look to the dead Hutt to Han's left. "Doesn't mean the Imps didn't take his warning seriously, though."

 _The Empire must be coming by now,_ Chewie said. _They will investigate._

Han ran a hand over his mouth, thinking. He was maybe six hours away from the _Falcon_ by speeder, longer by foot. It was hard to estimate; they'd long since moved beyond his usual territory on Nar Shaddaa. He had no basis to know how long the trek back to his ship might take.

If the Imps didn't know about the _Falcon_ already, they would soon. The rebel's escape window was closing in and Han could feel the noose tightening, tightening, _tightening_.

"We can't leave now," Leia answered Chewie, surprising no one. "Not when we're so close."

Salla gestured to the door, the hatch that Han had only just realized had been jury-rigged open using a Gamorrean helmet as a placeholder for Salla's foot. "Do you have any idea how long it's going to take us to get back to the ship?"

 _Hours,_ Chewie rumbled.

"Mine is almost as far away," Salla continued. "And the Imps are going to know pretty quickly that something's up when they don't hear from Grouka in the morning."

"How long do we have before they send in stormtroopers?" Han asked.

Salla shrugged. "Grouka would probably check in at first light. I don't know that for sure, though. Stone would have a better idea than I do."

 _We don't have Stone,_ Chewie growled. _We should assume the narrowest time-frame for safety. We need to go._

Leia shook her head. "No. We need the heaters. We did not come this far to stop now."

"What we need to do is get off this blasted moon before someone gets the bright idea to call in Vader," Salla said. "You've been seen, Your Highness. _Everywhere._ Anyone could have called in an anonymous tip."

 _The risks far outweigh the benefits, Little Princess. Perhaps if Grouka was still living we could pursue it but now—_

Chewie's rumbled entreaty stopped before he could finish the thought but Han could tell everyone understood what he meant.

Salla was brave enough to put it in words. "I'm sorry. It's time to go."

Han watched Leia. She stood with her back to him, spine rigid and proud, hands hanging loosely at her sides. She turned her head to look at Grouka's corpse, the evidence of violence she herself had committed, clenching her fists. He could only imagine what the inside of her head sounded like at that moment: riotous allegiance to the Alliance and a constant drone of righteousness thrumming through her skull.

This was not what Leia Organa did.

This was not how she had become the person she was. Leia didn't take shit from anybody. She hardly took good-natured advice from other people she trusted, even older people or ones with vastly more experience than she had. She followed her gut, her internal rightness gauge. The evidence of her own eyes, the logic in her head. She was bull-headed and stubborn …

… and god damn it, she got shit _done._

Leia would not leave Nar Shaddaa without the heaters. Which meant the fate of everyone he'd pretended not to care about was in her hands.

Han dropped his eyes to the floor, a wave of uncertainty taking him by surprise. There was no reason to stay. None whatsoever. It was a suicide mission from start to finish. No one in their right mind would argue any differently.

But she'd been right at Yavin. She'd been right to trust Salla, been right to trust Stone. _Mistryka_ or the Force or whatever it was about Leia Organa that she tapped into to make decisions. That was real.

And he suddenly understood. This was not about enviro-stabilizers for Leia. This was about investing in a future she didn't believe she'd see. Leia's existence depended on the Alliance's survival. She didn't count her days as the days before her death. She counted her days in how long she was able to keep the Alliance together and alive. Without her, they were lost. Her insight, her magic, even the passionate way she argued; all of it was essential to the galactic crisis in front of them.

Defeat for Leia didn't mean her own death. Defeat for Leia meant the destruction of the Alliance.

Luke and Wedge and the kind-eyed Carlist Rieekan. The crazy recruits from all over the galaxy. Even fucking Mon Mothma, with her casual _I'm-better-than-you-all-but-I'll-keep-that-a-secret_ smile. All of that was truly on the line, every life, every future life, all of it. Leia was crazy, she was batshit insane _,_ but she knew when to take the job seriously.

And Han … Han had tried to ignore her before. He wasn't prepared to do it again.

He didn't _want_ to do it again.

"We can't go without the heaters," he said, quiet. Low. Barely a sound at all.

Three sets of eyes shot to his: blue wonder in Chewie's, orange shock in Salla's, and brown brilliance in Leia's. Han almost smiled, _almost._ The moment was tremendous, the shift in the universe so enormous that they could feel it, too, couldn't they? A cosmic realigning of right and wrong; a feeling of honest-to-goodness courage. Like Yavin but with an added feeling of certainty. Yavin was about risking his life on a gamble; this was about trust. Leia hadn't failed him yet; she'd get him through this, too.

 _Fuck it,_ he thought. _Sign me the hell up._

He shook his head, tossed a grin Leia's way. "You two go get the ships. Leia and I will stay here; we'll rendezvous when we're ready to extract the heaters."


	30. Clay and Pearl

_Clay and Pearl_

* * *

Darkness found Han and Leia a third time on Nar Shaddaa.

The waning daylight hours were spent examining the attic above the spice den for supplies and clues about Grouka the Hutt's small empire. Light streamed from the window high above their heads as they worked, transitioning slowly from dull durasteel gray to midnight black: creeping from outside the walls into the corners of the room. A dire chill swept through the old building; the darkness stole warmth from the air. Leia could feel the coming frost on her skin.

Out of their three nights on the Smuggler's Moon this was going to be the most difficult. Their first had been spent in the Shocks in a slave hovel with no door. And while the wind had rattled through the hallway outside her borrowed bedroom and picked up debris in the streets and whistled through the darkness like an erstwhile phantom, Leia had fallen asleep feeling as safe as she could have. She'd slept deeply enough to dream: that bespoke far more calm than she would have anticipated surrounded by sentient misery and encroaching danger.

Their second night had been spent in Prisht's underground suite. And while in obvious danger and at the mercy of a Chev whom she didn't understand—much less trust, despite all her help—Leia had slept well due in no small part to a certain smuggler. Han's arms around her, the feeling of his chest at her back, his knees behind hers …

 _Safe._ That was how she had felt. It'd been so long since she'd felt such outright physical affection from another being that she had grasped it with both hands and embraced the feeling, however swift and temporary it might have been. A respite. A remarkable glimpse into a future she hadn't been prepared to admit she wanted. Peace in the middle of a vast warplain.

But the third night promised something altogether different. There was no Salla to host them here; no Prisht. They were in acute danger of discovery, with a Hutt corpse in the room below them and a hanging sense that they would not survive to see the light creep through the window in the morning. Everything was dangerous, every corner was a trap, and she could feel the tension in the frosty air, the walls closing in on them.

 _Nonsense,_ Leia thought, and refocused on the job at hand. Han had ripped the bed-sheet lengthwise, a shoddy but effective enough bandage for the night. Almost two years of war and gruesome base evacuations had made an amateur field medic of them all and she was no different. The steps for treating a blaster wound were universal: clean, bandage, and get to a Two-One-Bee as quickly as possible.

Step three wasn't going to happen tonight.

Leia knelt down to examine the wound, recently cleaned by a dusty bottle of whiskey and a few sharp groans as the makeshift antiseptic burned through the guard's tissue. Leia winced in empathy but pressed the edges of the wound together to promote as much healing as the body could accomplish on its own.

"Keep him quiet or he'll wake the whole neighborhood," Han said from the other side of the room.

Leia pressed her lips together and hid her smile, choosing instead to loop one end of the torn bed-sheet around the man's leg.

"Please," the surviving guard begged. "Please don't kill me."

Leia paused, the bed-sheet loose in her hands, feeling a pang in her chest.

"We are not going to kill you," she murmured. "All we want is a way into the warehouse in the morning."

"And then I can go home?" he asked, eyes wide and questioning as if she hadn't already answered this same question three times before.

"Yes. Then you can go home."

The guard's eyes shot between Han and Leia. "I don't want to die," he said.

Leia nodded, holding onto her patience with a death-grip. _Poor man,_ she thought. _So helpless and afraid._

The guard hadn't been her initial concern downstairs. Salla and Chewie left to collect the _Falcon_ with assurances that they would move as quickly as they could. They'd return in the morning to load the heaters, though no one knew how long it would take them to reach the ship. Salla assured them the _Falcon_ was less than ten hours away by speeder, but they'd left some legroom for unexpected confrontations. Chewie had commed Threepio, informing him to put the ship on stand-by and await an ambush or firefight when Chewie and Salla made it to the berth.

That had left Han and Leia with the daunting prospect of entering Grouka's warehouse without assistance. No building plans, no knowledge of security measures, no intel whatsoever. They had no idea what awaited them and it was a terrific dereliction of duty to waltz into enemy territory without proper reconnaissance. Any field operations commander worth her salt would be incensed at this plan—or lack thereof—if anyone got word. Leia herself had vetoed mission plans with such glaring deficiencies.

And yet here she was, considering the same thing. It was madness.

Then Leia had remembered the injured guard, shot by Han in the leg in the firefight. She'd walked over to the groaning man, crouched to his level, stared into his eyes with all the boldness and discernment she could muster. Intimidation had worked thus far; she'd follow the same route she'd taken with Stone if need be.

She'd reached for his helmet, tugged the worn plastex off his head, revealed a mop of dirty blonde hair and terrified gold eyes.

And she'd paused, mouth opening in shock as her head-to-toe assessment stopped at his neck. At a crescent-shaped scar, only shades lighter than his sun-browned skin. Remembered a conversation she'd had with Chewie—had it been decades ago or yesterday?—in which he'd informed her that their rail-thin server at the _Rough Shod_ was a slave by virtue of a similar, jagged scar on his neck.

 _I need to help them,_ she'd said. _I should learn how to notice it._

 _Perhaps you should,_ he'd agreed.

And now here the scar was again, in another unexpected place. Leia had felt sick. Without explanation, she'd forced Han to carry the wounded guard upstairs and place him onto the bed. Once he'd been safely moved, Han had railed against her logic in a bright, glittering display of how passionate he could be when they found themselves on opposite sides of an issue.

 _He tried to kill you,_ Han had reminded her.

But Leia remained firm. This was a man without choices, from a very different situation than Brill Stone. Stone's poor decisions were his own burden to bear but this man had been subjugated and forced to do whatever his owner had demanded of him. And if Stone could be redeemed, could make the right choice at the critical moment, this man could be absolved of whatever sins he'd committed while under duress. Like Katya, the girl in the Shocks. Or Prisht, as a slave on Vinsoth.

 _He is a slave, Han,_ she'd said. _And I know how you feel about slavery._

An arrow into the heart of the matter. Leia and Han had many, many differences between them and a canyon of issues to deal with, but slavery was not one of them. There was no discussion on the matter. In no circumstance was it morally acceptable to deny another sentient creature freedom. _Period._

Han Solo might be tough and cynical and pessimistic about the good in beings but he'd also freed a Wookiee slave from bondage at severe harm to himself.

They'd bandaged the guard's leg and instructed him to sleep, giving him the bed and clearing the floor behind the desk for themselves. They'd found more bottles of whiskey than the one they'd used to clean the guard's wound and had passed one between them as the light sank into shadow and the cold seeped into their bones. They said very little as the light faded, as the attic disappeared around them, leaving them only with the light of the glow-lamp still sitting beneath the desk from their earlier exploits to find the safe.

And that was why the third night was going to be difficult. Because there was no bed. Because there was alcohol. Because they were cold and tired and too wired to sleep. Because a conversation was brewing that scared Leia to death. Because they were alone for the first time since they'd cleaned up Chewie's surveillance equipment from the hotel room across from Stone's flat.

Because finally, _finally,_ they knew a corner had been turned.

Leia took a drink from the almost-empty bottle, felt the stale burn of cheap whiskey run down her throat, and handed it to Han.

"This is terrible," she murmured, watching as her fingers twisted between her knees.

Han lifted an eyebrow in question. "The whiskey? Or the situation?"

"Both."

"Can't do much about the situation, sweetheart. That's all on you," he said. "And as for the whiskey ,,, _well._ it's no Whyren's Reserve, that's for sure."

Leia turned to watch him take another swig from the bottle, to see the muscles of his throat as he swallowed. The way the glow-lamp's yellow-orange light made his eyes bright and jewel-toned. The amber warmth of his skin in the chill of the night. They sat side-by-side, knees up, their hips touching, backs pressed against the dividing wall that separated the office from the sleeping area where the injured guard lay.

Their own cave: somewhere quiet and private where honesty lived.

"I've never had Whyren's," she murmured.

Han set the bottle on his other side and tilted the back of his head against the divider. "Never?"

He sounded so affronted that Leia couldn't help but laugh and shake her head.

"Senate never had a real party?" he asked. "No fun for the stuffed shirts? Wild negotiation ragers?"

"No, sorry."

"Naked trade union drinking games with the interns?"

"Definitely not," she said, her laughter quieting in the still air around them.

She flashed to banquets, to champagne and blush, bubbly wines, to fine silk dresses and uncomfortable, expensive shoes. Tried to remember what she'd chosen to drink in those situations, remembered with a pang that the drink choice of an elected official was very, very important.

"You had to drink alcohol from your own system," she said. "Those were the rules."

"Says who?"

"Says _protocol,_ " she replied. "The protocol packet for the Imperial Senate was so long that it didn't fit on my first holopad. I had to buy two more to download the whole thing."

Han made a disgusted sound in his throat. "And you _read_ it?"

"The part about drink selection was very clear: encourage the economy, show system pride, be a good scion of your planet's crop …"

"Pride in weak whiskey?" Han added.

She threw him a dirty look. "Alderaan's whiskey wasn't weak."

"It's no Whyren's though," he said, nodding sagely, like a whiskey connoisseur of high breeding, if such a thing existed. "One sip of Whyren's and you'd never drink the other stuff again."

"Shouldn't be too much of a problem," she answered,

Han turned careful eyes toward her, regret etched in the line of his lips. "Sorry," he murmured, then turned back to watch the flickering light from the glow-lamp. "I forget sometimes."

She nodded, pressed her lips together. "I do, too."

"Do you?"

"Yes," she said. "Sometimes my first thought in the morning isn't _am I going to die today?_ It's _I wonder if the mountains are out?"_

Leia imagined the three-pronged range rising from the countryside, the edges of the Lake of Aldera lapping at the city's home island. The smell of sweetblossoms in the air from the vendors just outside her window at the palace. The calm, the quiet, the security, the art and music and science that comprised the whole city, lifted from the shores and into the mountains, as much a part of the planetary identity as the water and earth and snow and unique starfield of her balcony at the Winter Palace in the last, cooling days of Second Equinox …

Han's voice brought her back to the present. "If the mountains are out?"

Leia waved a hand in the air. "An old Aldera saying."

"What does it mean?"

"That the cloud cover has lifted enough to see the Triplehorn crests from the city. It meant good weather, good omens. Springtime."

Quiet descended but it was intimate and personable. Not the cold loneliness of her bunk on _Home One,_ when remembering Alderaan twisted a hidden vibroblade so deeply into her ribs that she couldn't breathe. This was bittersweet and … and it felt _good._ To talk. To remember with someone who might be irreverent but who knew well enough to tread carefully when her heart was on the line.

"Your codename? Pearl?" Han asked, low. "Is it from Alderaan? Does _Leia_ mean _pearl_ in High Alderaani or something?"

She turned her head, looked at him with muted shock. "Why would you say that?"

"Seems important to you," he said with a shrug. "You're fine with me making fun of your title but it feels like Pearl is off limits."

She pressed her lips together, nodded, wondering at Han's indefatigable perceptiveness. "I was named by my birth mother. And it would be fairly easy to figure out who was here if _Leia_ meant _pearl i_ n my native language, wouldn't it?"

Han didn't react and Leia found it reassuring. What a novelty, to have an actual conversation without any of the pity she received from everyone else. This was why she wanted Han, why she found his irreverence refreshing. There was no coddling. No sidestepping. Honesty was so damned rare in the galaxy.

"Pearl was my parents' nickname for me. It was the last word my father said to me before I left to retrieve the Death Star plans."

He nodded as if unsurprised by her explanation. Without looking in her direction he reached his right hand, grabbed her left, squeezed and then let go. Soft assurance. Camaraderie. _Faith._

Leia decided to up the ante.

"And how about your nickname, Slick?" she asked. "Where does that come from?"

Han made a deep sound in his throat, a thoughtful kind of hum, and Leia's stomach seemed to fall to the floor in pleasant weight. _Strange,_ she thought but she didn't question it. She'd long ago learned that this man could do things with his voice that should be considered a weapon.

She shifted onto her left hip, turned her knees toward him and leaned her temple against the divider. "Come on," she goaded with a smile. "I showed you mine. You show me yours."

Han's eyebrows shot to the ceiling and he turned his head to give her a pointed look. "Careful, Highness. That's some awful bald language coming from a lady of high-breeding."

Leia smiled, pleased that she'd gotten him to lighten up. "I'm adopted. I don't know if I come from high-breeding or not."

"High education, then," he quipped. "Boarding school and manner tutors and whatever rich kids get and poor kids don't."

 _Manner tutors?_ Leia almost laughed. "You're stalling."

He paused, looked up to the ceiling again, seemed to frame his story carefully, brick by brick, finding a balance of truth and bravado that didn't look like an escape and also didn't tell her the whole story.

"At Carida," Han started and then paused as if to give her an opportunity to show shock. When she didn't react, he tossed her a furrowed look and then continued. "At Carida I had this flight instructor. Guy named Badure. He used to call me Slick. The name stuck."

Leia pressed her lips together. "What did you do to earn the name?"

"None of the big-wigs could stick any demerits on me."

Leia considered that for a moment and then rejected it out of hand. "No."

"No?"

"I don't believe that for a second," she said.

"Why not?"

"Because no Caridian flight instructor gives a cadet a nickname when he _didn't_ do something. And also I don't believe you graduated without any demerits. What did you really do?"

Han smiled, green eyes sly and amused. "Landed a broken piece of shit U-33 orbiter loadlifter in one piece, more or less. Thing didn't have lateral thrusters and was leaking O2 like a Kauti pleasure cruise."

She boggled. "A loadlifter without thrusters? In one piece?"

"The _more or less_ part is important." He shrugged but didn't elaborate and Leia had to tuck away her ravenous need for answers. The fact that she'd gotten _any_ of the truth from him was an achievement all its own. She'd take what she could get.

"Hmm," she said. In a fit of admiration and a sense of reckless abandonment, she scooted closer. "You have an odd sense of false modesty, Captain Solo."

"Nothin' modest about it," he argued, absolutely proving her point.

She smiled and waited for him to look in her direction. She wasn't touching him but she was close enough that she _could._ She hoped her proximity and the fact that he'd already shared a story about his past might let him open up a bit more.

When he turned, she tucked her knees in toward his, leaned in, settled into his side so that her torso touched his right arm.

"Well, since you aren't being modest," she began, tilting her head and brushing a finger against his shoulder. Once. Twice. "Tell me about the Battle of Nar Shaddaa."

It took him a moment to respond and Leia realized she could sense his weaknesses the same way he wielded that deep rumble of his against her. For one brilliant moment his eyes gazed down to hers and looked happy. Relaxed. Pleasant and calm.

But then her words sank in.

Han jerked backwards, startled. "Uh. No?"

Relentless, she pursued him. "Face it, _Slick,_ I have learned a couple things about you in the past few days. And one of those things is that somewhere in your possession is a badge with a six-armed star and blue thread."

He sat still, eyes wide on hers.

"And that six-armed star and blue thread badge means that you fought in the Battle of Nar Shaddaa. You have a _history_ of fighting the Empire. Isn't that right, Lieutenant Solo?"

He beat the back of his head against the divider. "Damn it."

Leia bit her lower lip, trying to suppress a full-wattage smile. "I'm _right!_ You and Chewie and Salla were all a part of it!"

Han blew out his breath, turned to peer down at her. "It's not a big deal. No, really," he forestalled her, holding up his left hand when she opened her mouth to refute him. "Lots of people were involved in that. Don't get all excited—"

"Who was in charge of it, Han? Who planned it?"

"—Mako had as much to do with it as I did and—"

She broke into a full laugh, delighted. "You! You were in charge!"

"—crazy, you're out of your mind if you think I—

"You planned, executed and _won_ a full-scale battle against an Imperial Moff," she said, gleeful. " _You._ Captain _I'm-in-it-for-the-money_ Solo."

"Seriously, Leia. Quit it."

But there was no way she was going to let him off the hook this time. "Does Luke know? Carlist?"

He grimaced. "Kid already thinks I'm more of a hero than I am. Don't give him any more ideas."

"Oh, I'm telling _everybody_ when we get back," she said, turning to lean against the divider. "Over the speaker system, if I can manage it."

He groaned, but Leia heard playfulness beneath it. Relief, almost. Pride. "Do it and die, Organa."

"Dodonna's a big fan, by the way," she continued, unabashed. "I've heard him reference the under/over/out maneuver a couple times. That's the one when you—"

"I know what it is."

Humor and blunt, gruff embarrassment in his voice. Leia couldn't stop smiling. This was perhaps the best conversation she had ever had with this man.

"He says he'd offer a commission to the being who performed the under/over/out at Nar Shaddaa in a heartbeat," Leia continued. "Carlist already _has_ offered one to you. You have three votes in High Command and I suspect Mon is at least fifty percent on board. I bet we could get you a generalship if you asked nicely enough. Add in a little political groveling for effect, maybe a smile or two—"

She was teasing. Hilarious, the idea of Han accepting a rank of general. Not because he didn't deserve it—he'd done far more for the Alliance than Crix Madine had and High Command was seriously considering the same rank for him—but because anti-sycophantic, anti-establishment, raucous Han Solo with general's bars pinned to his chest was a delightful image.

Leia could picture him in command without even a flicker of a doubt; she'd seen him do it before. Han regularly ordered the younger pilots around when in dogfights. He had an unheard-of amount of freedom to alter battle plans when necessary for an unallied contractor. Beings all through the ranks trusted him and would follow him to their deaths in a heartbeat. His flight record was impeccable, his bravado earned. He'd make an unparalleled commander and Leia suspected they still hadn't seen all of his tricks yet.

Caught up in her mirth, astounded by the new information and yet just a little bit nonplussed by it as well—this was _Han Solo_ after all and he thrived on unpredictability—Leia didn't notice the change in the air until she glanced at him again.

He was still. Eyes laden with meaning, motionless and green, so green, like the forgotten bottle of cheap whiskey on his left. He hadn't moved closer but suddenly he was close enough to feel his chest rise and fall with deep breaths. The flicker of the glow-lamp's light polished and softened his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the jagged ridge of the scar on his chin. His lips uneven but not screwed up in his favorite lopsided grin. He was so unbelievably handsome in that moment that Leia had to blink against the picture he presented. Her breath hitched and pressure filled her ribcage, anticipation keen in the electricity under her skin.

"I don't wanna be a general," he said into the hush.

Leia nodded but didn't say anything more. She wasn't sure that she _could_ say anything. She felt like she was poised over a cliff, waiting for the inevitable fall. All rested on his next words. Because if they weren't denying their feelings anymore then he could say _anything_ and she didn't want to be caught off guard by expecting too much. She had admitted to herself that she loved him and part of what she loved about him was that he was never going to be completely known to her. His mind worked on an entirely different grid than hers did, not better nor worse. Just _different._

She watched him instead, the tantalizing line of his lips. The furrow of his brow, the drop of his eyes to her hand in her lap, the deliberation in the set of his mouth.

"Does your offer still stand?" he asked. "To help me pay off Jabba?"

His eyes lifted and she was caught in the seriousness in them. No teasing, no trick. Just a question plainly stated but honestly asked without the frills of irony or facade.

She waited for the inevitable addendum, the _because Chewie is considering it_ that protected him from admitting that his question came from himself, from a place of truth and vulnerability. The hardened mask of every other interaction they'd had when they'd discussed this subject. The hard-won veneer of cynicism he'd neatly perfected.

But no. There was nothing there but genuine, authentic curiosity. And Leia found her words.

"Of course," she said. "Of course it does."

He paused, took a deep breath, closed his eyes. Nodded. And from those uneven lips he said the words she'd been waiting months to hear from him. "Okay, Princess. I'm with you. I'll sign the commission when we get back."

She reacted without thinking, the joy overwhelming and tidal, the relief washing over her like a wave in the sea. Leia leaned into him, lifted a hand to press her palm against his cheekbone, to pull him closer to her, his knees touching hers, his torso turned, the soft light of the glow-lamp infinite in their small enclosure behind the desk. His lips opened and in the second before she kissed him, she caught his surprised eyes.

But then it didn't matter.

Her lips brushed his, a fleeting touch, so soft that it could have been casual but for the spark of heat that spread through her chest, the bloom of warmth that tore through the anxiety nestled behind her heart in the cavity of her emotions.

The kiss was too quick, too small for her to gather any useful impressions of what kissing Han might have felt like. She wanted to know how he tasted, the texture of his tongue, the sweep of his nose against hers.

But she also knew that he hadn't moved. She could feel his shock, the stiffness in his spine, the way his hands remained pressed into the floor. And whatever it was that was consuming her had to be mutual, had to be wanted, for her to move beyond a semi-innocent peck.

She leaned back and opened her eyes.

Han's eyes were closed, his lips barely apart until he closed them. He took a deep, struggling breath, chest expanding, his right hand twitching where it pressed into the ground next to her thigh.

"Sweetheart," he whispered and opened his eyes.

 _Fire._ Pure, unadulterated flame. Consuming and hot, trembling, the tension tingling in the air. He radiated want like a sun, combustible and molten, the crackling energy of desire so strong it choked the air from her lungs. He took another breath through parted lips, eyes paralyzing on hers.

And in that instant, Leia realized that he was holding onto his control by a thread.

Desire defeated propriety. Leia shifted, moving a knee onto his thigh, pressing her chest against his and wrapping her left arm around his neck. Not in his lap but very close to it, unaware of how it looked or what anyone would say should they see them in this position. _Closer,_ her body told her. _You need to be closer. You need so much more than this._

For once Leia agreed.

He kissed her. She watched his eyes until the last possible second, when her head tilted and her bottom lip slid between his. And then it was touch, the press of his fingertips into the back of her head, the brush of his chest as he sat up, pulled her closer. The warmth of long, rangey arms around her, the heat of his mouth, the low groan from his throat that she felt in hers. Pleading, overcome.

They separated to take a breath, came back together. Leia tasted whiskey: the fire-burn had changed and now it was richer, deeper, warmer. Perhaps this was what Whyren's tasted like, Leia thought. And she discovered that she understood addiction, now, could fathom a reality in which she could crave something as small as a kiss, if it was from _this_ man.

Because one kiss should not be this much of _anything_. Kisses were a traded commodity, a non-entity, really, in politics. Kisses hold no power over another being. Kisses are formal events, passionless, cold and precise. Not this, not an avalanche of heat and need. Not intimate and open and, _god_ , so much more than lips on lips.

This was fire.

He drew back, switched sides, straightened his legs along to floor to give her a safer perch in his lap. She climbed up, running both hands into his hair, feeling like this eternity was perfect, the small sounds of quick breaths before longer kisses, stretching time out into forever. What use did she have for hesitation? It had only forestalled this warmth, this need, this succumbing to mutual pining that did nothing but hurt.

"Waited so long," he murmured against her lips. "You—"

But she didn't let him continue, kissing him again, taking charge and sliding her tongue along his bottom lip. His mouth opened without hesitation and the taste was whiskey, yes, but also something hotter, braver, incalculably _good._

Her stomach fell to the floor, a crushing pressure unleashed beneath her navel, electricity shooting from a central current coiled deep in her chest. She wanted more, immeasurably more. Wanted her dream, wanted _more_ than her dream. Wanted connection and faith and a physical anchor in the chaos of her life. Wanted to lose herself to his lips, tongue, arms and chest. Wanted all of it, everything, sighs and moans and a resolution to this infernal _need_ of theirs—

A groan interrupted the frenzy, cooled the urgency of the moment. Leia pulled away, opened her eyes, realized Han's hand had swept beneath the fabric of her shirt and was resting a the small of her back. She breathed, trying to infuse her brain with needed oxygen, to clear it of its hormone-addled haze.

"The guard," Han said.

Leia refocused on his face, the spell decidedly broken, the timing ruined. She expected his expression to mirror her own anger, disappointment, in the interruption to what was just the beginning of something unfathomably wonderful.

But he was smiling at her, a foreign smile she hadn't seen before. Self-conscious, almost: definitely not self-congratulatory. Soft. Open. _Happy._

Her lips turned up without her permission.

"Wow," he said, and ran his fingers across her lower back. "Talk about a welcome into the ranks."

She felt a blush creep along her neck but forced herself not to be embarrassed, to be as bold here as she was in all other areas of her life. She was fully capable of embracing this new world, of feeling this way about a man without it changing a single thing about her. Honesty, with herself _and_ with him, was an earned contract, and she finally knew, really knew, that it was a mutual agreement.

"That was _not_ a welcome into the ranks, and you know it," she said with all the conviction she had in her bones.

His smile brightened, as if confirming a deep suspicion. "Yeah," he murmured as he leaned in to kiss her forehead. "Yeah, Princess, I know."

* * *

 _Author's Note: This chapter is dedicated to the uncomparable Cicatrick, whose birthday was yesterday. Unfortunately, her special day became so much more complicated than she ever anticipated and to respect her boundaries, I held off posting this chapter until the storm had cleared a little bit. The world is a kinder place with friends in it and Cic deserves to be ambushed by the love and support she has shown us over the past year. And so, dear friend, I dedicate The Making-Out Chapter to_ you, _and hope today was full of kinder and more considerate people than yesterday was. We love you very much and offer you all the dirty climax jokes we possibly can in your honor. Dickmansra, my friend. -KR_


	31. Tempered, Shaped, Overcome

_Tempered, Shaped, Overcome_

* * *

There was a time for pride and gloating. This was not it. Even Han could see that.

Leia's soft breath whispered on the skin of his throat, gentle and sure. Her hand had slipped beneath his shirt, rested on the side of his stomach, sending warmth wherever she touched. Strands of her hair had escaped the rigid wrap-around braid she wore and brushed against his lips; he mindlessly pressed soft kisses into the crown of her head, watching dawn rise through the high window on the far side of the attic. His arm had lost all feeling a half-hour ago but there was not a single chance in hell that he would move it from around her back. He wasn't _clutching_ her to him per se but he definitely was holding her close. She was warm against him, whole and real, and Han felt like he'd just won the largest sabacc pot in the galaxy.

He closed his eyes, breathed deeply. It had been just a kiss— _okay,_ he amended to himself, _a few kisses_ —and there was no reason to feel quite so affected by it. Kissing was … it was nothing special: even _less than_ nothing. Kisses weren't even all that uncommon across species, much less humans. Something about pressing lips to lips was appealing to most humanoids. Nothing important, nothing unique. He'd kissed a whole hell of a lot of people and now he knew damn well the princess had kissed her fair share, too.

Except.

Kissing Leia was something altogether different. It had weight, electricity. Kissing Leia had been like the dip in his stomach before he gunned the _Falcon_ 's accelerator and dove in atmosphere: the drop, the weightlessness of thrill and excitement. All nerves and happiness and freefall. He hadn't felt anything like that in years, in a decade. _Ever._

Maybe it'd been anticipation? Like a reward for good behavior: his patience and willingness to be a decent human being?

That might have explained it if he'd felt like that the first time she kissed him: the sudden throwing of arms around his neck: the hurried, unmitigated joy of a new revelation. He'd said he was staying and she'd reacted much the same way she would react if Luke suddenly walked through the spice den door to get them out of this fucking disaster of a mission.

But that wasn't when the thrill—the dive, the freefall—had happened. When she'd kissed him, he'd felt shock and …. Not _dread_ , not exactly. An ache: three words running in a loop.

 _Not like this. Not like this._

He didn't want to kiss Leia as part of a reward. He didn't want the faint taste of _if you do this, then I will do this_ anywhere near those lips. He wanted to kiss her—or for her to kiss him—because they both knew what they felt. Accepted it. Found meaning in it. Because he wanted her and she wanted him. Because this much heat was not normal and it took them somewhere terrifying and brilliant and they were both crazy enough to want to see where it went.

But not like this.

He couldn't get out of his own damn way enough to enjoy a kiss from the princess. This ethical shit was the _worst._

And he couldn't even claim that he was joining the Alliance to sleep with Leia. Those were two very different things as far as Han was concerned. Signing a commission was for people like Salla, people who deserved a better life than the one she'd been given, the way she'd been treated by others, himself included. For people like Luke and Leia who'd seen their families ripped away from them by the Empire. For Chewie and Prisht and even that sad sod on the bed on the other side of the room: people who didn't have the chance to be good because someone else legally owned them and took and took and took from them until there was nothing left to take.

Joining the Alliance was about finally, _finally,_ doing the right thing at the right time and for the right reasons.

Leia …. Leia was something totally different.

How he felt about Leia was a churning, molten mess, only exacerbated by this mission and how well they'd worked together. Salla's presence hadn't helped, either, because his relationship with Salla had been set in sharp relief to his non-relationship with Leia. What he'd done with and felt for Salla had been the pattern of his life. The brief affairs, the loose arrangements, the trail of unhappy lives behind him. Whether or not they got the heaters Leia so desperately wanted he would leave Nar Shaddaa with a recently-uncovered guilt that had laid in wait for years until he'd met _her,_ until Leia had blasted like a comet through his atmosphere _._

And now here was an opportunity to be better, here was a chance to trust someone, here was someone Chewie loved and befriended and who he was giving Shyriiwook lessons, who'd proved again and again she was genuinely, truly _good._ Who legitimately wanted to die for others, who considered her life equal to the masses of beings she wanted to free. If he couldn't trust Leia—this stellar human, this incredible woman of faith and grit and strength—who _could_ he trust? Was he simply not built for it? Was he incapable of it?

Han found in himself the deep, penetrating desire to have faith. To _try._

He remembered their conversation the other night, the way he had characterized himself as clay in his mind. Expendable. Common. Unnoteworthy. The complete opposite of Leia's pearlescence; as ordinary as she was extraordinary.

But even if clay was common … wasn't it the stuff capable of enormous shaping? Natural potential: nothing _but_ potential? Didn't people make bowls and buildings and tools out of it? Wasn't it the first step in most civilizations, to see what the planet gave you and use it to make things better? Before anyone could think about valuable gems, they needed clay to survive. It might not be beautiful, it might not be rare, but clay served a purpose, damn it. And it could do good in the galaxy.

He shook his head, overwhelmed by these thoughts. What the hell was he doing? All of this moralistic, do-gooder nonsense was like a compounded pressure beneath his skull. He supposed his sense of ethics was like an underdeveloped muscle, like he needed to work at it a bit. He was new to this, needed to listen to that small voice of guilt. And in the very first second of his decision to do things _right,_ Leia had kissed him.

Pure agony, ruthless and harsh, to be so close to her, to feel her lips against his but not be able to fall into her joy the way he desperately wanted to do. He wanted her more than he'd wanted anyone in his life. He craved her lips, felt defeated by the very thought of her skin. If kissing Leia felt like a revelation, what would _more_ feel like? The sighs, the taste, the unguarded beauty of Leia Organa in full passionate delirium? Her voice in his ear, her hands on his hips, the thrum of her pulse against his lips through her throat, her chest, her inner thigh …?

Hell, even _his_ very excitable imagination couldn't fathom it.

And yet he couldn't engage until he _knew,_ really knew, that this wasn't an accident or a reckless moment of shock from her. He needed her to want him as much as he wanted her, with all the blinding heat and absolute torture he felt when she touched him. He wanted her trust, wanted to earn the privilege of her favor like a good person should. This was not how he'd treated Salla or any of the rest but _god damn_ it was how he was going to treat Leia. Even if it killed him. Even if it tore him apart at the seams he was going to be the kind of man he wanted to be, not just for her but for himself, too.

And until he did that nothing was going to be right.

He'd opened his eyes after her too-short kiss, prepared for the cool, regal facade she sometimes wore to piss him off. He'd expected her to immediately regret kissing him. He'd expected the skittishness of Leia hiding her very-human feelings from the outside world. He was prepared for it, felt inured to it.

That wasn't what he'd seen.

All the confidence of her considerable pride, the surety of their discussion the night before, the faith in him that she deserved to have but had never been given reason to hope for … it was all right there. She didn't regret kissing him. This hadn't been a surprise or a mistake.

His breath had caught. _Like this?_

Beautiful Leia, so stubborn and tremendous, had made a decision. And once she made a decision, she followed through, full-stop. As she'd chosen politics, as she'd chosen rebellion and self-sacrifice and power, she'd chosen him, too.

Han's transcendent moment was the happiest of his life. Here on Nar Shaddaa, in a Hutt-controlled spice den, doomed and awaiting possible torture and probable death, he felt the guilt transform into pure, ecstatic thrill. The dive. The full knowledge of who he was and who he was going to be.

Heat overtook him and he kissed her with complete and total abandon. Her lips tasted like whiskey, like warmth and _Leia._ She'd moved into his lap and now it was all Leia, everything Leia: her whispered sighs, the fleeting touch of her fingers through his hair, the press of her chest against his. He sat forward to bring himself closer, to lean into the fire with everything he had.

 _God,_ she was everything. His world splintered, he forgot about right and wrong, trusted her to guide how far this went because had no clue. He was flattened by a kiss, by the perfection of Leia Organa's full faith in him, by whatever magic it was she had within herself that made her utterly devastating to him.

He broke away, came back to her, couldn't stop. His hands wandered, slipped into her hair and held her lower back. Her nose brushed his and he forgot to breathe in the next break, had to cut the next short because kissing Leia felt like breathing and he had conflated one with the other. This is what they needed, they _needed_ each other, hadn't they finally realized that? Why breathe when here she was, in his arms and as transformed as he was?

"Waited so long," he tried to say, failed, tried again. "You—"

She interrupted and initiated a deeper, fuller kiss, her tongue sweet on his lower lip, and Han's chest nearly imploded in pure, unadulterated adoration. Her tongue, the slick sweep along his, the sweet taste of Leia in full passion … Han was overcome, overwhelmed. Triumphant and humbled at once by a kiss that felt like a prelude to the most fantastic death known to humankind.

He wanted everything. Now. Wherever she led him he'd go, entranced despite himself. To the ends of the galaxy if she asked, to Darth Vader himself. This was worth the price of his life—this was— _this_ was—

The guard on the bed moaned, soft but loud enough for them to break away, breathing deeply. "The guard," Han murmured unnecessarily, watching Leia's eyes open, feeling his lips turn up into a smile.

When she smiled, too, Han's heart seized in his chest.

"Wow," he'd said.

 _Wow_ didn't begin to cover it. _Wow_ was the only word Han could think at that crucial moment, the only way he knew to express how his chest swelled, how his eyes softened when he looked at her now. _Wow_ was a placeholder for a bigger word than he could think of at the moment, but that didn't mean the feeling wasn't there, wasn't bursting through his veins like spice, lighting his blood up from the inside.

He'd quipped about the welcome into the ranks, she'd soundly rejected that notion, and they'd fallen asleep on the floor behind the desk with the glow-lamp filling the space with heat and light. The floorboards weren't his ideal cot, but the company made it exponentially preferable to an empty bed. Leia, warm and close, quietly breathing into his throat and shifting her legs beside his? Nothing beat that.

Nothing beat that.

 _Like this,_ he thought as the light broke through the window, the first rays of Y'Toub hitting the transparisteel. _Just like this._


	32. The Falcon

_The Falcon_

* * *

The _Millennium Falcon_ was beautiful in the morning light, unharmed and whole. Chewbacca felt enormous relief as the spaceport bustled around him, the weight of beings leaving and arriving on Nar Shaddaa. The air hummed with electrical currents and he smelled sharp notes of human adrenaline and engine lubricant in the air. A pilot was threatening the stationmaster behind him and two Gotals were fighting to his left, fists raised but blasters not yet aimed. Danger thrummed in every corner, hustle and greed and desperation, like sinew to bone: interconnected and part of the whole.

Nar Shaddaa hadn't lost the air of peril and doomed menace while the humans and he had been on their mission. It was just that the spaceport consolidated _so much of it_ that it felt like stepping on a vronskyr nest. Tempting fate. Walking into the nexu den.

So Chewbacca ignored the bustle, ignored it all, everything, in favor of the transcendent view before him. The _Falcon_ shone in the green-gray light of morning like a Wroshyr Siren, calling to him as if in song. Her struts and her cockpit and the patchwork, mottled exterior. She was safe, the _Falcon:_ their eternal rescuer. The ship of matted gray plating and Han Solo's vivid dreams of freedom.

 _Good morning, my love,_ he growled to himself in a tone only his mate had heard him use. _Good morning, beautiful._

"She looks good for an old woman," Salla Zend murmured to his right.

He grunted: agreed. She _did_ look good: untouched by the danger they'd experienced the past few days on the moon. His worry for the _Falcon_ had been a strong undercurrent during his time away from her, and it was like coming home, seeing her again. All the stress, all the anxiety, well, he couldn't rest until Cub and Little Princess were aboard, but a piece of his body had been reunited with his wayfaring soul and that was _good._

 _Have you missed me?_ he rumbled, sentimental, and ignored a sharp twinge of pain from his injured arm.

But the time for sentimentalism hadn't yet come: they were still in great danger. Salla Zend, ever vigilant, brought him back to himself. "Has anyone touched her?" she asked.

Chewbacca whuffed, amused. _Droid has been with her. He was instructed to let no one near._

"Droid?"

He had to remind himself to be patient with Salla Zend's understanding of Shyriiwook. What little she'd learned, she'd learned years ago. And it warmed him considerably to know that she recalled even that much. It was not an easy language for humans to learn, as he well knew from his lessons with Little Princess.

 _You will meet him soon and wish you hadn't,_ he said, careful and slow.

Chewbacca sniffed the air, classified scents into categories of danger ranging from idling crewer to potential threat. He swept his gaze from one side of the berth to the other, hunting instincts raw and fresh. He felt the heat of beings as they wandered around him, their unique signatures of bioenergy like a bogey on a targeting computer.

It felt good to push himself this way, felt good to use his sight and ears and taste the way he was designed to use them. Too often in spacefaring he did not have the opportunity to use his hunter's resources; he cherished the chance now. Like stretching an atrophied muscle, like unfurling to his full height, he strained his eyes, tested his nose, felt the heat on his skin.

When nothing seemed out of place in the bustling spaceport berth, he nodded once to Salla Zend and led her out of the shadows.

The berth was enormous, twice the size of any Alliance hanger, and was only one of three hundred open to the public on Nar Shaddaa. The other six were designated for the crime lords for immediate evacuation from the moon should one need it, though rumor had it the berths were hardly in good repair since the major bosses largely lived and died on-planet. Chewbacca had heard that Jabba himself had used one of these exclusive berths when Grouka had chased him from Nar Shaddaa to Tatooine.

The berth that housed the _Falcon_ was not one of these exclusive spaces but it was better than most. Cub and Chewbacca had paid handsomely for it—sixteen hundred credits! It was robbery blatant enough to rile his Wookiee temper—but it appeared the credits had been well worth it. From afar the ship appeared unharmed and as they neared her underbelly, they were not harassed. Chewbacca hummed in pleasure as he pressed his paw to the lateral landing strut.

 _Hello, baby,_ he thought. _Hello, beautiful one._

"When're you two going to replace that damn sensor?" Salla Zend asked next to him. "It's half-hanging from the plating."

Chewbacca threw her a puzzled look. _Which sensor?_

The human woman blinked and then nodded, as if she'd resolved a riddle. "Yes, I probably should be clearer. When are you two going to replace _the really important anterior heat sensor that stops you from flying into a sun?_ Is that better?"

 _Oh,_ Chewbacca growled, dismissive. _We'll get to it._

With a quick step, he moved to the hidden security latch on the other side of the strut, ignoring Salla Zend's eye roll. He lifted the decoy plating with too much force and ripped through the adhesive with a jerk of his hand. He paused, considered the plating for a moment, and then handed it to Salla Zend.

 _Hold this,_ he instructed her.

"You and Han," Salla Zend murmured. "It's a miracle you two haven't killed yourselves yet."

He bared his fangs at her in amusement, appreciating the truth of her statement. He well understood that the crew of the _Millennium Falcon_ had a precarious idea of _working order._ It was part of the fun of life with Cub. Chewbacca enjoyed the challenge of keeping his human brother alive and their cantankerous ship in one piece however he could.

But Salla Zend shifted away from him, shoulders leaning away, brow furrowed and lips pinched. Chewbacca realized with belated disappointment that she was afraid. Disappointment not in _her_ —no, he understood how intimidating Wookiees could seem to smaller species—but in _himself_ for failing to mask his more intense reactions. Cub paid such reactions no heed and Little Princess was by now well-educated in Wookiee culture and mannerisms.

Chewbacca considered Salla Zend, the courage she'd shown over the past few days. He considered how she had risked much for the Alliance, for Cub. How she had been loyal and reliable, very fierce in battle, resourceful. And he considered dropping his distrust for her entirely, in his decade-old judgement of her avenging nature.

Yes, Salla Zend deserved his trust. There was little question of that now.

As customary with Wookiee alliances, Chewbacca immediately dropped any references to her in her full name. Tradition said that untrusted acquaintances were referred to by their full name: friends by their surname: family by a given name, what humans called a _nickname_ but held far more importance for Wookiees.

Therefore Cub was _Cub_ ; Little Princess was _Little Princess_. Salla Zend had been _Salla Zend_ but deserved to be simply _Zend._ An ally, a friend, someone he could trust.

Chewbacca nodded to himself, pleased, and pressed one large, hairy paw to the security panel hidden beneath the decoy plating that Zend now held.

A loud, ostentatious whistle issued from the speaker, startling Chewbacca. Zend took a knee and put her hand on her blaster in preparation, ready for the fight should one come to them.

Chewbacca frowned as the panel turned red beneath his paw.

"You are trespassing on private property!" A familiar, nervous voice came from the speaker. "Please remove your appendage and retreat or suffer the consequences!"

Chewbacca's good mood died in a tailspin, his anger bursting from his chest like a breaking dam. See-Threepio's voice, while not instantly recognizable, was one layer of security the Wookiee had not anticipated. Zend shifted closer and craned her neck to see beyond the strut. Chewbacca could already feel the eyes of bystanders on them: unwanted attention as he tried to board his own ship.

 _Droid!_ he growled. _It is me!_

But See-Threepio continued, unwavering. "You have ten seconds before I begin defensive measures!"

 _Droid!_ Chewbacca barked again. _It is Chewbacca of Kashyyyk. I am the first mate of this ship!_

"Nine seconds!"

Chewbacca's roars grew louder. _Let me in!_

"Who is onboard?" Zend asked.

 _Little Princess' droid,_ Chewbacca rumbled, though he wasn't sure if Salla understood his nickname for Leia Organa. _He is not worth the metal from which he is built._

"Eight seconds!"

"Leia's droid? That explains the volume," Salla murmured. "Can you shut him up? He's attracting the wrong kind of attention."

 _I am trying. Can you not tell?_ Chewbacca growled, then slammed a paw on the hull-plating just above the strut. _Droid!_

"Seven seconds! Only one individual has access to this ship!"

Chewbacca groaned, recalling with displeasure Cub's parting words to See-Threepio. _Do not, under_ any _circumstances, let anyone in. My handprint gets the ramp down. No one else's. Got it?_

It appeared the droid had taken the instructions quite literally.

 _Droid, Cub is safe with Little Princess for the moment, but we need to find them and get to them before they are captured._

"Captured! Oh, dear," the droid said. "I am afraid I have my instructions, Chewbacca. Captain Solo was very clear. Four seconds!"

"Well, this is super fun," Zend muttered.

Chewbacca roared and threw his arms into the air. _You would destroy me? With Cub's ship?_

"Of course not, Chewbacca, but I have my orders and I will not fail Captain Solo on such a dangerous mission!"

 _Oh, you have no idea the vengeance I will rain down on you, you half-wit, mechanical—_

"Three seconds!"

Chewbacca shook his head but looked around furtively for a way to bypass the security scanner. The easiest way would be to come back with Cub and Little Princess and lift-off straight from the spaceport. But Chewbacca could not imagine going back to the spice den where he'd left his captain without a way to transport the enviro-stabilizers. They could use Zend's ship—the _Starlight Intruder_ —but Chewbacca feared if they left the _Falcon_ here it would be repossessed by Jabba the Hutt's associates. Or someone who worked for Grouka. Or the Empire.

And Cub had no comm, so there was no way to simply call him and get Threepio to stand down. And Little Princess did not have a comm either—all their comms had been liberated from them by Prisht the Chev in her underground lair—and even if they _could_ comm the humans, there was no guarantee that the droid would stand down even then.

Chewbacca tried to focus, tried to anticipate what the droid meant by _defensive measures._ Would he trigger the belly gun? Magnetize the hull and run an electrical current through it, frying Chewbacca and Zend instantly? Alert spaceport security and get them arrested, a death sentence all its own on this moon?

"Two! I am quite serious, Chewbacca!"

Chewbacca spit a foul phrase and dropped into a crouch, raising his bowcaster to his shoulder and aiming it at the security panel as if _that_ would be the avenue of attack. He couldn't anticipate the droid's choice of weapon, couldn't fathom what the droid knew of the _Falcon_ 's system. He was a protocol droid, for Sith's sake! When had he had time to learn the controls to the belly gun? When had he …. _How_ did he …?

 _Wait,_ he growled. To Zend, to himself, to See-Threepio: he didn't know.

"One second! Leave now and you will not be harmed!"

But Chewbacca grinned, teeth bared. An idea blossomed, the fruits of his long and hard-won knowledge of the _Millennium Falcon_ and her systems. What she could do, what she couldn' dot….

…. And what See-Threepio _didn't_ know _about her._

* * *

 _A/N: Happy New Year! We resume our story with as close to weekly updates as I can manage from here on out. Thank you for your patience! -KR_


	33. Payload

_Payload_

* * *

Leia was adrift: weightless and dreamless and surrounded by heat. Warmth against her lips, against her hands and her legs: wonderfully safe and unblemished. The world outside her consciousness was nothing, _that_ was the dream, not her peaceful rest in a black bubble of timeless immaterialism. She rested, whiskey-soaked and beloved. _Rested,_ like a normal person, like someone without the weight of the galaxy on her shoulders. Rested like her body had told her she should; rested like her mind turned off all function. Beautifully brain-dead and calm.

When she awoke, she marveled at the foreignness of her night, similar to the night before but rich with new knowledge about the man she loved and the state of their relationship. She wondered at the way her legs threaded through Han's, the way their hips fit together like notches on a post. The way her head tucked under his chin, the way his heartbeat thrummed beneath her lips. Strange—unfathomable, really, the way she felt secure in his arms, the way she fit comfortable and cherished in his embrace—and new but right, too.

She had the strongest urge to tilt her head up, kiss him and put to rest her bubbling desire, the fire that hummed even now in the depths of her stomach. But this was not the time nor the place, and she realized with a quick inhale at the skin of his throat that when she and Han bridged that final physical divide, she wanted time and space to fully experience it. She didn't want a tumble on the floor of an attic, she didn't want an injured slave in the bed nearby.

She didn't want a hurried escape in the throes of fatalism and fear. That seemed cheap, unbefitting the sacrifices they had made for each other, the potential of _them_ that she was only now starting to seriously consider.

When Leia pulled Han to herself for the express purposes of sexual gratification, she was going to have his undivided, unfiltered attention and all the time in the galaxy. Period.

 _And soon,_ she thought, blinking against the skin of his neck, brushing her nose against his adam's apple.

"Morning," he mumbled into the crown of her head.

She ran her fingers up the skin of his side, breathed into his throat. "Good morning."

"It's time to get going if we want to be ready when Chewie and Salla show up."

"Mmm-hmm." She pressed her lips to his skin, not a kiss but intimate in its own way. "I don't want to get up."

He chuckled; she felt it against her chest and her ear, light and easy. "I'm all for staying here for a bit. _You're_ the one with an itinerary."

"Ridiculous," she murmured. "This is the worst idea you've ever had."

" _Me?_ " he said, amused. "You're the one calling the shots, sweetheart."

She lifted her head from his chest, looked him in the eye. They were spectacularly green in the dusty morning light, the ring of brown like the brushstroke of an artist.

"Absolutely not. _I_ would have set an alarm," she said with a raised eyebrow.

Han tilted his head, mildly outraged. "I'm a _human alarm_ and you got me set just fine," he protested. "Was just about to wake you up."

"Sure you were," she teased, skipping over the _got me set just fine_ nudge he'd thrown at her.

Leia wasn't entirely sure that it hadn't been innuendo and she didn't trust herself to keep her priorities in order if he started talking like that.

She sat up, ran a hand over her braid, looked around the attic. Nothing had moved in the night: the dust, the scattered objects, the light streaming through the window high above their heads. The empty bottle of whiskey lay tumbled to the side; the glow-lamp still shone beneath the massive desk. The fact that no stormtroopers had raided the spice den in the the dead of the night was the height of good fortune; she'd take that bit of luck as a good omen for the day to come.

"You check on the guard," Han said, standing and offering her his hand. With a tight smile, she ignored him and clamored to her feet without his assistance. He threw her a mock-hurt look, all big eyes and pursed lips, and she only shrugged in response.

"Sleep with me once and suddenly I'm a damsel in distress?" she asked, immediately turning her back on her own promise about priorities.

But she loved this competitive teasing between them. Everyone prostrated themselves on the altar of the crown; Han made her feel like an ordinary person. And she wasn't going to let him off the hook just because they'd resolved some very important issues the previous night.

Han looked thrilled, though: smile wide and eyes bright. " _Twice,"_ he said, holding up two fingers.

"Fine. _Twice._ But keep your chivalry to yourself, Captain Solo."

"Will do," he said with a wink. "I'll take my chivalry and look downstairs, make sure we're in the clear."

Leia nodded, amused, and walked around the thin partition that separated the desk from the bunk. The guard was lying on his back, breathing deeply, eyes closed, one hand on his stomach and the other splayed by his right temple. In the daylight and the calm of morning, he looked younger than he had last night. Curly, dark hair exploded on the pillow, a messy halo around his head. He was thin, tall: his feet hung over the end of the bed as if he hadn't wanted to get the cheap mattress dirty. A scar ran over his hairline from temple to temple, light against his tanned skin, and Leia wondered how he had gotten it.

She sat on her heels and gently shook the guard awake. "Good morning," she said.

He jerked, violent and startled: eyes wide and terrified as he snapped into consciousness. His arm grasped for her hand, landing on her wrist and holding tight enough to pop blood vessels. He sat up and tried to move his legs over the side of the bed, but the movement incurred pain at the blaster wound on his outer thigh. He hissed, wrenched a hand to his leg, breathing ragged and strained.

"It's okay," she murmured. "I won't hurt you. You're okay."

"My _leg._ "

Leia gently removed the hand holding her wrist and pushed the man to lie flat on his back. "Please relax," she said. "May I look at it?"

He nodded with a grimace. She moved further down the bed, kneeling on the hardwood floor by his thigh. With a deft nudge, she loosened the makeshift bandaging Han and she had applied the night before.

Beneath the torn sheet was a red, blistering, angry wound just above the guard's knee. She pressed fingertips into the skin to either side of the tear, tested the healing edges and burned lines on either side of the wound itself. It had been too much to hope that any meaningful healing could be done overnight without bacta, but she was happy to see signs of impending—and painful—closure of the wound. The bright red of blood and muscle was a good sign, too: infection had not set in and that was a miracle in and of itself in the less-than-sterile environment of the attic.

"It hurts," the guard moaned.

"I know," she murmured, beginning the process of changing the dressing. "But it's a good thing that it hurts. It means that the nerves haven't been damaged."

The guard turned his head to look at her. "The man with you. He was the one who shot me."

Leia stopped wrapping his leg, turned amused eyes onto him. "To be fair, you were trying to kill _me_."

He mulled that over, quieted as she resumed dressing the wound, tightening the sheet to stem the trickle of blood. When he next spoke, it was in a lower register, not guilt-ridden. Sheepish. Contrite. "I wouldn't have killed you," he said. "The orders were to capture, not kill."

She nodded, tied the last knot in the bandaging and then stood. "Unfortunately, those things are one in the same for me," she said.

The guard tested his mobility, leaned to the side once again and sat, swinging his long legs over the edge of the bed with a pained groan. He caught his breath and tilted his chin to look at her, measuring her intentions. She offered him a small smile in return, friendly, trying not to look at the man as someone to be pitied though he most definitely _was._

 _Do not be condescending, Leia,_ she told herself. _He is an adult, sentient being._

She felt awkward in her pity, felt like she should have the right words to reassure this man. But how did one interact with someone who had never had any choice in how they lived their life when that's _all_ she'd ever had? She remembered asking Chewie the same thing at the _Rough Shod._

 _Why don't these people join us? Why don't they fight alongside us, for their freedom? For what's right?_

And Chewie, dear, wise Chewie, with clearer vision than any of them, had said: _rebelling is an option for the rich._

Accurate. It made her self-conscious. It made her careful. She had to toe the line between compassion and pity with this man, and she was not sure she knew quite how to do that.

So she started simply. "What is your name?"

He looked up, blinked, swept a dark curl of hair out of his eyes. "Mattias," he said.

"Mattias," she said and nodded. "I promise we will not hurt you."

Mattias looked down, avoided her eyes. He pressed a hand to his injured leg, seemed to gauge the pain. "Do you have younglings?" he asked her.

Leia shook her head, startled by the question. "No."

"I do," he said, "I _do_. And all I want is to return to them safely. Please do not promise to not hurt me. Promise me that I will return home to my daughters."

The words hung in the air, brittle and so honest that it broke Leia's heart. She nodded, reached out her hand in a silent offer to help him stand, test his strength, to see for himself that he was still able to walk albeit with some assistance. When he was up and his pained cries quieted to low mumbles, she turned him to face her. He was nearly as tall as Han, though far thinner and without the strength hidden beneath cords of muscle. His eyes were so different from Han's, too: the fear and the hopelessness obvious as daylight.

"I promise you," she said. "Show us how to get into the warehouse and you will be free to return to your children."

He winced but nodded, and Leia tried to hide the ache of knowing that even as he returned to his children, he was also returning to the system that owned him.

* * *

An hour later Han, Leia and Mattias stood in front of a low, domed building.

"You sure this is it?" Han asked. "Looks like a slum-house."

Leia had to agree. The building in front of them was shabby, in poor condition and with an unpainted, crumbling exterior. The walls had been stuccoed years ago and if one needed any proof that the toxic fumes on Nar Shaddaa were slowly strangling life here on the moon, one only need look at the warehouse's walls. Mottled and soured into a sickly green, the stucco was cracked with age and disrepair, long fissures breaking into the foundations of the building. Struggling vegetation escaped through the cracks, a discordant sight in an otherwise purely metropolitan neighborhood nearest to the sector marketplace.

"Yes, this is it," Mattias said.

Leia spoke up. "You said there's a back door?"

"When we brought the investments here, we took them through a cargo door on the south side of the building. It took hours; there's so many of them."

"Doors?" Han said, skeptical.

" _Investments,_ " Matthias answered. "Hundreds of them. Shelved and secured around the front quadrant of the warehouse."

"Probably not a good idea to go through that cargo door, then," Han said. "They're gonna have guards on it."

"No guards," Mattias insisted. "We locked the door and no one's been back. At least I don't think they have; no one's said anything about it in days."

"And Grouka is dead. Why would any guards remain on site?" Leia said.

Han stared at them both, hands on his hips, eyes hard. Leia could understand his reticence; it seemed suspicious for the heaters—what Mattias had insisted on calling _the investments_ —to lie unguarded so near a rotating spice den that was only accessible by a sign on a door and a bioscan. Had Grouka been planning on moving them later?

"I don't like this," Han said. "It's too easy."

She nodded. "If we had known about the heaters' coordinates—sorry, the investments—and shown up here I would agree with you. But no one could have anticipated that Grouka would be at the spice den, or that Stone would give us the code for the safe or that we would survive the firefight to show up here the next day."

Leia had a history of seeing how fortune played its games. And in her experience powerful people did not usually anticipate what would happen after they were incapacitated or killed. For Grouka to have left valuable resources guarded when he fully intended to capture or kill the Alliance agents who were trying to buy them …. The Hutt would have had to have been a Jedi to see the future that clearly.

"We should have been dead a thousand times since arriving on-planet," she continued, appealing to Han's logic. "Surviving this long has been luck and luck and more luck."

"Exactly! And I don't wanna push mine much further," he said.

Mattias shifted on his injured leg. "There are no guards here. There is a security system but I should be able to open it with my biomarker."

Han scowled, wiped a hand over his face and then nodded. "Fine. And when we're all dead—"

"—You'll have been right," Leia interrupted him with a small half-smile. "Bragging rights earned in the afterlife. I got it, Han."

"Damn straight," he muttered, then wrapped an arm around Mattias' waist and bent his knees to lend support to the injured slave. "Okay, Mattie. Where's the cargo door?"

* * *

When the enormous warehouse door opened, Leia half-expected something to go wrong. Han's anxious shuffling, his insistence on standing directly in front of her to shield her from what he called _the boom that's bound to happen_ —misplaced chivalry again, _Han Solo_ —it had all created intense unease in their small group.

She cringed, waiting on pins and needles for their bad luck to continue as it had this entire mission. The slow backslide into capture, slick as the ground beneath their feet, their fingers grasping for sure ground as it crumbled into nothing, as the world threw them into the cruel grasp of the galaxy's mercy.

But the door opened with a low groan, unremarkable and true, and brought them into a dark cavern of a room. The air inside was wet and smelled of mold. They walked on pebbled tiles, ancient by any standard, and saw dark shapes in a monolith of stacked shipping crates. Leia reached for the nearest, a lone crate on the floor meters away from the first wall of its brethren but was stopped by Han's hand, rocketed in impressive speed to grab hers.

"Might be a set-up," he murmured.

She gave him a dubious look that she wasn't sure he could see. "Yes, Han. _This_ is where the trap will be sprung."

He squeezed her hand but didn't reply, instead guiding her to the far wall. She wasn't sure what he was looking for as he hunted, but she allowed him the moment without comment. If this is what Han needed to confidently move the heaters, she would allow it.

Light exploded above them. A gigantic bank of fluorescence threw the warehouse into sharp visibility and Leia gasped to see just how enormous the wall of cargo crates was. She turned to Han, ready to reassure him, but the smuggler was likewise assessing the mountain of crates, his hand on a light control panel.

She turned back to the crates, estimated that the mountain was nearly thirty crates in height and spanned the entire warehouse. The warehouse itself had no adjoining offices that she could see, no other rooms; the entire five thousand square meters were used for storage and nothing else. There was no decoration, no homely touches, no hints at all of sentient comfort.

Just a wall of cargo crates, floor to ceiling, rising above her head into the harsh light of the panelled lights overhead.

She shook off Han's hand, jogged to the lone crate in the center of the warehouse. With a grunt and all the strength of her arms and back, she pried off the top of the crate and nudged it to the floor with a loud clatter.

Catching her breath, she peered inside.

Beautiful, dinged and used but beautiful all the same, the enviro-stabilizer inside the crate shone. A square meter in size, it looked like it had been hurriedly exorcised from an ailing Star Destroyer, wires tugged loose from its side. It sat on a nest of flimsies and torn cloth, like a strange mechanical bird.

Warmth in her chest as she gripped the side of the crate. "Han," she breathed. " _Han."_

He mumbled beneath his breath, walked toward her, footsteps lost in the vastness of the warehouse. "Hey, Mattie. Do you think you could ...?"

She ignored Han, brushed a hand against the heater. _Finally._ Chewie and Salla would meet them here and together they'd all load the crates into the _Falcon._ It wouldn't take them long. They'd be off this wasteland of a moon by midday, if they hurried. A quick punctuation mark to end the mission as a resounding success.

And Echo Base could be launched immediately if these heaters worked the way she thought they might. _A new start,_ she thought. _A home._ Stability for a year—just one year—and the Alliance could flourish, she just knew it could. All they needed was some time and then their efforts wouldn't be in vain. They could win this war if they just had a little time.

"Mattias?" Han asked again. "Hey, Mattias!"

Leia was transfixed, lost to her relief, and didn't look up until Han's hand brushed against her shoulder blades. His eyes had sharpened, the green now like a spear, and she pulled away as if punctured through.

"What's wrong?" she asked, eyes sweeping the warehouse.

"He's gone," Han said. "The slave. He's gone."

Leia turned startled eyes to the door, to the sickly daylight seeping into the warehouse, a chill sweeping through her chest. "What?"

"We gotta go," Han said. " _Now._ "


	34. Time's Up

_Time's Up_

* * *

Han Solo's life changed in five minutes.

That's all it took. Five minutes. Five _fucking_ minutes to feel the depths of horror and pain and the heights of blinding, mutual love. There had been pivotal moments in his life before—when he'd turned around and rushed back to Yavin 4 for one—but this monumental change was like an earthquake. Like an avalanche on Torros 3. Like the last gasps of a quasar in its million year lifespan.

It changed everything.

Minute five saw him grab Leia's hand and run _,_ payload forgotten behind him. The warehouse disappeared, all thought of the heaters dismissed. Spooked, he had acted without a second thought. Instincts firing, breath caught. The faint sound of armored plating hit him with more force than it should have: plating that gleamed white, barely more than plastex and cheap enough to protect nothing. A rush of ship engines, heavy and overworked. Arrest. Detention. Torture.

Stormtroopers.

They had seconds before their only escape route closed in front of them. _Seconds._

Leia's hand was cold in his. He heard her argue from behind him, heard her shout _Han, no, we can't—_

But then they turned a corner and her words broke into a cry of shock.

The man was dead: plasma through the temple, eyes open, mouth agape. It looked like he'd fallen on the spot, like maybe he'd been scouting around the corner: his head on one side and his feet on the other. His hand reached, palm out, toward the filthy green sky. A gust of wind rustled the mop of curly dark hair and Han spotted the torn bed-sheet tied around his lower right thigh.

Han's heartbeat tripped into a dire, frenetic rhythm.

"Mattias," Leia murmured, but there was no time. They had to move. It was not safe here.

Han pulled on her hand and they flew across the speeder-lane, dodging traffic and pedestrians in a mad scramble away from the clattering behind them, the grisly death and Leia's heaters. They had yet to _see_ the stormtroopers but Han was sure, so sure, definitely _yes:_ they were here and they were coming.

Minute four was a flash of color as the sounds of body armor rushed behind them. Their clattering, the _clamor,_ followed them like that old Coronet City ghost, the one who ate small children and stole food from the poor. A scurrying prey before a giant predator, the might of the Empire at their backs. If the situation were any less dire, he would have laughed at the image.

He grimaced and pumped his legs harder. They weren't gonna be able to outrun the Empire forever, but damned if he wasn't going to try.

Han's back broke out in sweat as he squeezed Leia's hand, pulling her behind him as he searched for a good route. They passed the spice den with the attic in which they'd spent the night, holed up and sweet, but he couldn't think of that now. They could run, yeah, could run for maybe a half an hour before they had to slow, before they'd need a break. And they could hide, but the clattering was getting louder, louder, _louder,_ the rush of engines, too, shouts and cries surrounding them as they pushed against the broken pavement and raced away.

In minute three they ducked into an alley, boots hitting the ground like anvils, splashing through standing water like explosions. His breath came fast and the alley narrowed into a wire fence, the kind he well knew from his childhood. He judged the makeshift stairway to either side of the barrier—old shipping crates and refuse bins, looked like—and grunted _you go left, I'll go right._

Leia's hand slipped from his and she sped up. With a careful eye on her progress, Han ran-leapt onto the leftmost crate, stepping three times up until he could vault over the fence without laying a hand anywhere near its barbs and electrodes.

His feet hit a puddle on the ground just before his knee did, and now his trousers were a sopping mess of mud, dirt and refuse. He looked up to see Leia's dismount, realized she had cleared the fencing with ease and was already in a full sprint out of the southern mouth of the alley, beating him by whole seconds. He raced to follow her just as a flash of white appeared at the alley's other end behind the fence.

 _Shit shit shit._ The only word he knew. They were coming, they'd found them. _Shit._

He spotted the marketplace in minute two, his lungs burning and his legs pumping. "There!" he yelled to Leia in front of him, her hair a riotous mess. "The market! Distractions!"

"Collateral damage!" she yelled back. "Citizens!"

Han rolled his eyes. Even now, Leia was trying to do the right thing. "Multiple exits! Visibility for Chewie!"

That seemed to settle the score for Leia. She turned toward the market and jumped the low barrier into the city square. Han felt the first stirrings of fatigue as he swept past the preliminary line of vendors, his breath short and his muscles screaming for rest.

Flashes of color like fireworks, the splatter of life and commerce in languages he didn't understand. The marketplace was a bevy of sensory overload. A Tranf shouted to him in her native tongue as he bolted past her, but he hardly heard anything, his heartbeat so loud in his ears that the rest of Nar Shaddaa could've gone mute and he wouldn't have noticed. Shoppers turned to look at them as they flew by; soon people were diving for cover, grabbing their wares possessively, as the two refugees and the Imperial contingent chasing them burst into the heart of the market.

Leia turned her head and her eyes widened. Han didn't have to turn to know what was behind them, what was chasing them.

And what were they running _towards?_ Chewie only knew the coordinates to the warehouse and they were far enough away from it now that the _Falcon_ might never find them. They couldn't run forever and at some point they would need to stop and hide—

A blaster whine.

Without thinking, Han grabbed Leia and bodily shoved her to the side. A blaster bolt zipped through the place her head had been and Han's breath caught. _They're getting closer,_ he thought. _You need a plan, pal._

He sped up at the one minute mark, all too aware that he was not going to be able to keep up this speed forever. He passed Leia, ran centims in front of her, scouting out a place to dive out of the marketplace. Han could throw her to the side again, _maybe_ , hope that he could split their pursuers. The marketplace was the easier ground: narrow and full of pedestrians to block his path. They could take him easily but maybe Leia could find somewhere to hide. She was smaller, younger, smarter—

More blaster bolts hit the dirt at his feet, zoomed past his head. This was unsustainable. They were gonna get hit, they weren't gonna make it—

Pain.

He stumbled as his knee gave out. It was a moment before he realized where the pain had come from, why the cone of heat radiated from his heel. Why his boot leather melted on the spot, burning into his skin like a brand. Why he wasn't running any more, why Leia had stopped, why her face looked tearstained and horrified. She grabbed his arm, pulled, tried to get him to stand up but he knew—he knew—he knew— _he knew…._

"Fuck," he muttered. " _Fuck."_

So this was how it ended, he thought, eyes on the dirt, sweat on his brow. This was how things worked out for him right when he thought he had it all.

Leia pulled on his arm again, yelled: "Get up." The last letter was rushed and she clamped her arms around his head, ducking with him as a blaster bolt speared through the air above their heads.

"Get _up,"_ she said into the huddle of their bodies.

But thirty seconds ticked by in Han's perfect time-keeping mechanism and the last of his adrenaline faded into nothingness. It was over.

The blur around him sharpened into focus, like finding the right lens, the brilliant colors of the vendors' shops cascading into the ugly skies. Bright, like a refuge from the dull and the gray and the pain of the moon beneath their feet. The air whispered to him, wind against his hair, Leia's heartbeat against the side of his head. Everything became real, startlingly real, awash in sensory details and the burn in his chest.

It was over.

They'd failed. They hadn't gotten the heaters. The stormtroopers were getting closer—he could hear their clattering getting louder and Leia's heartbeat had not slowed. But Chewie was out there somewhere, and Salla, too, and Leia was smart and resourceful.

 _Three,_ his mind-clock said. _Two._

 _One._

It was over … _for him._ Not for her.

"Go," he said and squeezed her hand. "Get to the _Falcon."_

She looked heartbroken there in front of him, and it ripped the ache in his chest in two. Her eyes shot between his and the coming troopers, and Han wondered if this was how she looked the moment Alderaan blew. He would never assume he meant as much to her as her people had, but in that moment he saw the rending of her heart, saw the implosion of all their work together.

Saw with intimate pain the way her hope died.

"No," she said and tugged on his hand. "Get _up._ "

"Leia."

The jig was up. There was nothing more he could do for her but make her go. And while he desperately wanted to keep trying to run, while he wanted more than anything for this not to be the end for them, he knew better. With her lugging his injured ass around, they would be caught.

And he loved her. So much it terrified him. So much that he would gladly push her away, make her go, if it meant her safety. The galaxy needed Leia to survive, to fight for the greater good. His life meant little in the grand scheme of things: a two-bit smuggler, a great pilot but one who didn't amount to much without the better beings around him forcing him to do the right thing.

But he'd gotten better, hadn't he? He'd made amends with Salla, had admitted his feelings to Leia, had vowed to join the Alliance for good.

This was a good way to die. If he couldn't see where this thing with Leia went long-term then he could at least do the right thing here on his own. Because he loved her more than anything and dying for her … well, dying for Leia felt like more of an honor than he deserved.

Her eyes … Han couldn't look away. All that pain _for him._ All that fierce devotion _for him._ He hated it and loved it in equal measure.

"You gotta go," he said.

He wanted to live in that moment for a short eternity. If this is all he got with her, he wanted to remember it. Torture might be coming his way: he'd done a hell of a lot of damage to the Imps over the last eighteen months. They'd make it hurt. They'd make it last.

So he looked at her and remembered kissing her the night before. He remembered the magnetic touch of their lips, the warmth of her hand in his hair, the whisper-soft electricity beneath her skin. The slick feel of her tongue, the way she'd curled in his lap, the ferocity of the passion she'd expressed sitting there like she'd always been a part of him. Cheap whiskey and a sweetness he couldn't explain other than that she tasted like home—

"Your Highness."

Han's memories snapped back like an elastic band at the deep bass from behind him.

 _Vader._

Han didn't turn, didn't glance over his shoulder. There wasn't any reason to dignify this cretin with a response. This scum, this utter rotting piece of garbage. Darth fucking Vader, in the flesh, er, _whatever he was._ Right hand man to the walking corpse that was Emperor Palpatine.

The being who'd destroyed Leia's world. The being who'd tortured her.

Fury sparked in Han's gut, wrangling through his organs and twisting around his spine. Vader, here, on Nar Shaddaa. Of fucking _course._ Of course this moon would lure the soulless, wheezing monstrosity. Of course Grouka was working with him. Of course sightings of Leia Organa would get Vader's attention. Of course.

Leia stepped in front of Han and he shifted to follow her, knee still pressed into the dirt.

The Dark Lord of the Sith was enormous, bigger than Han had imagined. Built like a Trangorian prize fighter. Armor shining, cape whipping behind him, glorious in putrid masochism. Vader was astoundingly out of place in a Nar Shaddaan marketplace, like a gem dropped in mud, like rain on Tatooine. The stormtroopers around him held their weapons at the ready, trained on Leia as she faced down her worst nightmare.

Han sucked in a breath. Leia's chances of survival had just plummeted. She'd escaped the bloody bastard once already. No way was said bastard gonna let it happen again.

Leia seemed to weigh the odds the same way he did. Without a word she brought her blaster up and squeezed off a quick blast straight into Vader's chest. Han had the ludicrous observation that she had to point the muzzle nearly above her head to reach the chest plate.

 _That's my girl,_ Han thought, and prepared himself for unconsciousness. When they awoke next, they'd be in separate detention cells. They'd never see each other again. And that was the _good_ option: the option in which the trooper's blasters were set to stun. The bad option was that some idiot trooper shot them dead on the spot.

Leia got one shot off before the troopers fired. Han winced but kept his eyes open, focused on the princess in his last few moments of consciousness. If her blunt courage was the last thing he saw, he'd consider it a blessing.

With reflexes he'd never seen before, she brought her blaster down and raised her left hand, fingers splayed, palm out. The line of her shoulder looked strong as durasteel and her arm didn't shake. _Ballsy,_ he thought. Ballsy to throw a hand in the way of blaster bolts like you could just will them away …

The bolts hit her gloved palm, smoke rising from the muzzles of the blasters. Three of them: _zip, zip, zip._ A pause. Then five more: stunning flashes that disappeared into Leia's hand like she …

… _what?_

Absorbed them? They didn't ricochet. They didn't miss; Han saw the blasts hit her hand. One stun blast would have been enough to topple _Chewie,_ much less tiny Leia Organa.

Han blinked up at her, at her eyes trained on Vader. At the trooper's shocked stances. They fired again and again and again. Leia's hand didn't move but it felt like it pulled the blasts toward her, like a super-magnet or a black hole. The bolts disappeared, one after another, into her unwavering palm.

"The hell?" he said, the words tumbling from his lips without permission.

Was it the glove? Han couldn't imagine the technology one would need to create a blaster bolt-dissipating device as small as Leia's palm. And besides, she would have told him about it. It was a glove, plain and simple: something they'd found in the attic earlier in the morning. She'd said her hands were cold; she'd left one glove on the floor of the warehouse when she'd touched the heater in the crate on the floor.

It wasn't the glove. It was _Leia._

He remembered with a flash the door in the hotel room opening and closing of its own accord. Remembered the way Leia had so easily trusted the right people, the people uniquely suited to help her throughout this mission. Remembered the hypnotic way she'd spoken to Grouka the Hutt.

Salla had seen it, too. Had told Prisht the young princess was … what was the word?

 _Mistryka._

 _Jedi,_ his brain supplied. _She's a Jedi._

Vader put a hand up and the stormtroopers ceased their firing. Sudden quiet: ruthless and damning. Han's spine tingled and his breath came short.

 _She's a Jedi._

It had been two minutes since he'd decided that he would gladly sacrifice his life to protect hers. Two minutes since his life had radically changed for the better. Two minutes for the woman he loved to demonstrate the glue that held her galaxy together: her strength, her empathy, the skills she used without thinking. Magic doors and violent perception and unfathomable trust in her own judgement.

 _Everybody breaks for Vader,_ Salla had said.

No. Not Leia.

Vader came closer, helmet tilted down to peer at the princess. She dropped her hand and released a haggered breath and Han knew she needed him, that she was fighting for the strength to hold her own against the demon in front of her. He rocked back on his knee and then stood, clumsy and weak, feeling the jerk and pull of protesting ligaments in his hip.

Leia needed him.

She dropped the blaster and grabbed his hand, gratefulness etched in the line of her jaw. His good leg steadied and he hobbled closer, her back to his chest. This monster in front of her … Han had heard stories. _Jedi-killer._ He'd seen it himself: Vader had murdered old man Kenobi right in front of them all on the Death Star.

"Obi-Wan?" Vader said, the first words since he'd spoken her honorific.

Han grit his teeth, opened his mouth to curse the dark lord to all nine Corellian hells. _Rot in your own filth,_ he thought. _Die on a bed of your own making. Impaled on a bar, cut through the middle. All of it is too good for you, pal. You won't take her, you can't take her._

Rage bubbled in his gut, protectiveness clenching Leia to him with all the strenght he had. But in the very lowest part of him, the most instinctive, the most bent on his own survival, he heard the whine of a Sorosuub 971x sublight engine, familiar to him as his heartbeat. It was a deep sound, like Vader's breathing, but so welcomed that Han almost cried out in relief. Rumbling and getting louder. Leia didn't seem to hear it and neither did the Imperials in front of them, but Han had spent his life in recognizing his baby's purrs and groans and that sound right there, the one getting close enough to touch?

The _Falcon_ was screaming for him.

He turned his head, mouth still open, to spot a long, flat oval on the horizon, getting bigger and bigger. Shining in the light of the sun, blasting through the atmosphere just a fraction too low for Nar Shaddaa's only enforced law. Ten seconds away, maybe. _Ten,_ Han's inner-clock started ticking forward again. _Nine. Eight._

Han refocused on Leia, squeezed her hand. They could survive this now. They weren't great odds but they sure as hell could manage it _._ And if Leia's mumbo-jumbo was on their side, the odds were even better. They didn't need to kill Vader; they only needed to live long enough for the _Falcon_ 's tractor beam to pull them into the airlock.

Seven. Six. Five.

But Leia didn't squeeze back. Her spine was rigid, straight, like she was huddled within herself but projecting a shell of who she was. He got the distinct impression of a Selonian weightlifter preparing herself for a lift-load she'd never managed before. Such power ran beneath the lines of her body that Han instinctively took a step back.

Leia tugged on his hand, kept him at her back, within the shadow of her own gravity.

Four. Three. Two.

A light, brighter than Y'Toub. A beam into a parabola from Leia to Vader to the troopers. Blinding, flashing light, a sharp crackle in the air. Leia was stiff, unmovable, and the dirt around them lifted, hovered. Like a sonic boom, the world shifted. Laws of gravity suspended for a heartbeat while Leia's power exploded into the men in front of her. Han's mouth fell open in a shout but he couldn't hear his own voice, lost in the cacophony of the blast.

 _One,_ was his last thought before he was surrounded in blue, Leia's hand still clutched in his.


	35. Outta Here

_Outta Here_

* * *

Chewbacca studied the metropolitan jungle of West Nar Shaddaa like he had studied the vines of an overgrown Blampalla patch on his homeworld of Kashyyyk: wary and quick and mindful of danger at every turn. He brought all focus to his task, mindful and intense, eyes and ears perked, ready to hover in a millisecond and tractor beam his humans to safety if that is what it took.

The city zipped beneath him, small and bleak: buildings and hoverlanes and the barely visible shapes of pedestrians as they startled at the _boom_ of the _Millennium Falcon_ 's sublight thrusters. He used his hunter's eyes to articulate the minutiae of the skyline, trying to differentiate between his own engines and the distinct whine of Imperial TIE fighters. He hadn't seen them yet but he knew they were there.

The comm traffic had been clear: Vader was on Nar Shaddaa.

Chewbacca whuffed softly to himself, mocking his captain for being unsure of having a comm-scanner onboard the _Falcon_. Cub had argued that weapons and shielding were more important to their careers of crime; Chewbacca had vouched for nuanced defensive hardware, like cloaking devices, medical equipment and the comm-scanner.

 _It will be most enjoyable to tell Cub I found him due to the scanner._

If he found Cub, that was. Chewbacca gritted his teeth and resumed his mad scramble.

The _Falcon_ 's underbelly scraped the bright blue overhang of a veranda; he was flying so low that, had Han been at the helm, Chewbacca would have called him crazy. As it was, Chewbacca only grimaced and continued flying, a low groan in his throat.

"Chewbacca!" See-Threepio yelled from the pilot's chair. "Chewbacca, you are flying too low!"

The Wookiee growled, annoyed. As if the protocol droid could say anything more obvious than that _he was flying too low._ Chewbacca was well aware. The altitude monitor was accusing him of the same charge. A loud whine had been echoing through the _Falcon_ 's cockpit for the last twenty-odd seconds. The transparasteel was full of color and movement as Nar Shaddan residents dove for cover.

 _Of course I am flying too low!_ he thought and didn't say.

But the warehouse where Cub and Little Princess were supposed to be located was empty. And that did not bode well for his humans.

 _Stop telling me how I should fly and open a channel to Zend,_ he roared instead.

"I don't know why I should do as you say, Chewbacca. You have been nothing but rude all morning!"

Chewbacca bared his teeth in a snarl and Droid hurried to switch chairs and follow the Wookiee's directive.

 _I have not been rude,_ Chewbacca thought. _I have been … insistent._

Perhaps insistent was too mild a word. From their first interaction of the day in the spaceport berth, Droid and Chewbacca had been at odds. The first moment had been hard enough: Chewbacca and Zend ducked for cover outside the _Falcon_ 's security panel as Droid loudly promised injury and pain if they did not miraculously produce Cub to counteract the droid's primary objective. They were all fortunate that Chewbacca knew the _Falcon_ 's systems as well as he did: he remembered at the important moment that See-Threepio was not able to trigger said security systems, a safeguard for which Chewbacca was thankful. Droid had done all he could to convince any and all intruders of his ability to engage the belly gun and electro-sensors over the past few days.

 _Droid can lie,_ Chewbacca had thought with pleasure.

But then they'd lifted off and Droid and Chewbacca found themselves on Khlowian terms again. They had flown Zend to her own ship, the _Starlight Intruder,_ hidden in a secret berth close to the spaceport owned by Prisht the Chev against the protests of Droid. And then he'd pushed to the edge of the sound barrier to reach Cub and Little Princess in time, only to find an empty warehouse full of environmental stabilizers, the _Starlight Intruder_ quick on his heels.

Droid had been mercilessly annoying after that.

Chewbacca would have assumed Cub and Little Princess had simply not yet arrived to help load the heaters but for the corpse of the guard outside of the cargo door. Once he'd spotted the body, Chewbacca had hauled jets and began the mad dash to find his humans. He'd switched on the comm-scanner with a rough flick of his paw and navigated straight toward a skirmish taking place a klick away.

 _It is them,_ Chewbacca mumbled to himself. _It_ has _to be them._

"Chewbacca, I have the _Starlight Intruder_ for you," Droid said from behind him.

 _Zend!_ The Wookiee roared. _We need to split up. You load the heaters. I must find Cub and his mate._

Zend's voice was strained, steady but stressed, and Chewbacca shared her anxiety. "I called in some friends. We'll get the cargo loaded. Go."

 _Copy that,_ Chewbacca growled. _Thank you._

"Just go save Han from himself," Zalla said before the channel was closed.

* * *

Chewbacca followed the the line of destruction and the flashes of stun bolts, still flying too low, eyes desperate for Cub and Little Princess.

A marketplace. Imperial vermin in a circle around two humans, a black, masked entity—not human, never human: even humans couldn't be as despicable as the Dark Lord. Cub struggling to stand behind his mate, injured in the leg? Chewbacca wasn't sure.

He disengaged the latch for the tractor beam and pressed _lock_ just as a bright light shot from the circle below him. Chewbacca watched in shock, stunned, as his instruments detected a massive expulsion of energy on the surface.

 _From where?_ he thought, but sealed the airlock behind the humans.

He had no idea where the beam had come from or where it went once it disappeared. All he knew was that he needed to leave Nar Shaddaan airspace _now._

* * *

The world snapped back into focus with a blinding light and searing pain behind Leia's eyes. She blinked, watched the blur coalesce into shape and tone and dimension, heard an engine roar in the distance. She could feel the heavy vibrations of a ship in atmosphere beneath her hands and when her eyes refocused, she could see the upper hull of the _Falcon_ 's airlock.

 _The_ Falcon!

Leia gasped and sat up, immediately regretted it as a wave of dizziness threatened to take her under again. She tried to put the pieces of the last few moments together, tried to arrange her memories into cohesive order, but struggled. She remembered Mattias' lifeless body on the ground with a sinking feeling in her chest, remembered their flight from the warehouse to the marketplace. Remembered the stormtroopers, remembered Han's injury ...

She turned, looking for Han, spotted him leaning next to the airlock's inner iris, poking the panel like he was trying to stab it to death.

"C'mon, baby," he mumbled. "You gotta open. It's _me_."

Leia blew out a concerned breath and tried to get her feet under her. Han needed medical attention and Chewie needed help at the controls. If there were stormtroopers on Nar Shaddaa then they had to have reinforcements in the system. At the very least a few transport vehicles, perhaps even a Star Destroyer.

They were still in very real danger.

"Han," she said, standing on wobbly legs. "How long were we out?"

He whirled on his good leg, eyes blazing on hers. Leia almost recoiled: Han looked terrified, eyes wide and mouth agape, an arm stretched out toward her like he could bring her in to him by sheer will alone, like a personal tractor beam.

" _You._ " he said too loudly, the word echoing through the airlock. "Are you okay?"

She nodded. "I'm fine. You?"

Han's mouth twisted. He tried to take a step toward her but stumbled, his injured foot twisting too quickly. He grimaced, uttered a curse, braced a hand on the hull to steady himself and then used his free hand to beckon her toward him.

"Will you just come over here?" he asked. "Easier for you than for me right now."

She took careful steps to him. Clearly the _Falcon_ was still in atmosphere; the artificial gravity hadn't come on and her feet were stable on the deck. Chewie would have come and brought them into the main hold if he'd made it to lightspeed. That meant they were still on Nar Shaddaa and Chewie was busy getting them off the hateful moon, full of such horrors...

She put it out of her mind, stepping into the circle of Han's arms with a low breath. "Your foot needs to be scanned," she murmured.

He stiffened but didn't let her go. "Don't worry about it. I'm more worried about _you."_

"Me?"

He pushed her back by the shoulders, grabbed her hands. "Do you… how do you feel? Your hands? Any burning or, I don't know… _what the fuck, Leia?_ "

She furrowed her brow, watched as he ripped off the glove still on her right hand, examined her fingers like they were a navigational chart, like ship manifests for which he had to sign. He flipped her hand over, pushed up her sleeve to expose her forearm and elbow before she finally shook him away.

"You can stop that now," she said. "I'm _fine._ "

"Then tell me what the hell you just did."

She shook her head. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Chewie must've found us in the marketplace, used the tractor beam to bring us here."

"After that. With Vader."

Leia's heart froze, beats forgotten, her whole body still. "Vader?"

Like a spear of ice had torn through her chest, her heart stumbled into bradycardia. Slow. Like death.

"You stopped stun bolts with your hand. Do you remember?" he asked.

She blinked, dropped her eyes. _Vader._ On Nar Shaddaa? Her chest felt like it had shrunk, trapping her lungs in unbending bone until she couldn't breathe. A sudden flurry of nervous dread ran through her stomach. Her fingers twitched and her mouth opened in shock.

"I—I remember needing to protect you—"

She remembered visceral, painful fear. Terror at the uselessness of the situation. She remembered blood-curdling, heartstopping anger, she remembered a moment of quick duracrete confidence, of total and complete faith in herself.

Like when she had lied to Grouka.

Leia took a step back from Han as he reached for her again. "Stopped stun bolts?"

His eyes were wide and he was breathing too fast. He watched her like she was a scared pet, like she was about to disappear on him, his mouth open and his hand reaching for her.

But words made even less sense to him than they did to her and he just pressed his lips together and nodded.

"Vader," she whispered. "It was a trick. He did something to us, you didn't see what you think you saw—"

"I know what I saw," Han said. He turned to the security paneling again, breathed out a very harsh _open the fucking hatch, you big furball._ When he turned back to her, he reached his hand out again, fingertips splayed so wide he looked like was holding a bowl. "Leia, come here. It's okay. _It's okay."_

But Leia hardly heard him. She was locked in a tight circle of three words: _stopped stun bolts._ And there was Vader, too, the most cursed of her nightmares. And at the very least Han didn't seem to want to dump her out of the airlock, so he _must_ think Vader had been tricking him. If she actually _had_ done something like that, Han Solo wouldn't come within sixty meters of her.

It was the power of suggestion. Luke had told both of them about how Obi-Wan Kenobi had convinced a stormtrooper in Mos Eisley before any of them had met…

 _Obi-Wan?_

Her eyes met Han's; certainty broke through her shock. She remembered Vader, his mask so close to her face, his harsh breathing in the raucousness they had created in the marketplace. She remembered Han grabbing her hand, she remembered Vader leaning forward, the faint dust on his helmet the odd detail she couldn't seem to get past.

She remembered her utter hopelessness. She remembered feeling energy in her torso that didn't belong to her. She remembered the lock of her limbs, the way her throat had closed and choked the breath from her lungs. She remembered her heart beating wildly out of control, the desperate failing of her body as it held too much energy in her cells for her body to take.

Until it overfilled, until it exploded out of her like blood from a wound.

"What did I do?" she croaked, horrified. "Han, _what did I do?"_

He opened his mouth to respond, closed it, tried again, but was interrupted by the hatch opening with a quick hiss.

She turned to look at the newcomer, hands splayed by her sides, hair in her eyes. See-Threepio appeared in the hatchway, gold plating dirty and the whir in his servo-motors noticeably louder than they had been three days ago when she'd last saw him.

"Mistress Leia, Captain Solo, it is so good to see you alive! When Chewbacca told me that you were in danger I feared the worst. And I couldn't even let him in because your instructions were _very_ clear, Captain Solo. No one but you was allowed—"

"Shut up, Goldenrod," Han said, reaching an unsteady arm around the droid's shoulders. "Help me get to the cockpit."

"Why, yes, of course. I don't see why you have to be so demanding all the time. I was only doing—"

"Shut _up."_

But Leia wasn't listening. Her body had reverted to autopilot, a shell in an ocean. She was being lobbed about like she was thrown into a hurricane. She followed Threepio and Han to the cockpit, sat in the navigator's chair behind Chewbacca. The Wookiee gave her a strange look as she sat but otherwise no one addressed her.

And for Leia that was fine. Because if she was—if she had—

In her young life, Leia Organa had become quite the master compartmentalizer. She could neatly arrange her focus into a given task while enormous, horrendous crimes against her were committed. She learned that on the Death Star; nothing would ever surpass the pain of that day, and what else could they do to her?

She used that focus now, blandly forgetting the unknowable.

"Let's get the fuck outta here, what do you say, pal?" Han asked as he plopped into the pilot's chair.


	36. Three Pieces

_Three Pieces_

* * *

Three pieces on a dejarik board: Han Solo, Salla Zend and Darth Vader.

Han Solo focused all his considerable mental power on surviving the encounter with the _Executor._ Vader's flagship was legendary, the ultimate destructor. Rumors abound of glittering, horrific attacks on hapless beings, turbolaser cannons pouring death onto homeworlds of rebelliousness. Han could recount three mass executions in the past three months alone: on Bralthe, Reltooine and Trafalgron. Strafed to the ground, rubble and dust because they dared defy the Dark Lord.

Nar Shaddaa's gray-green atmosphere disappeared into the relentless expansion of starfield and vacuum. Han gunned the sublight engines, remembered to activate the artificial gravity just in time to keep them all in their seats. A hesitation in the thrusters made him frown: a hiccup, he hoped. The hyperdrive _wouldn't_ fail on him now when he most needed her to work.

The hiccup slid into the low note of worrisome pain emanating from his heel: the undercurrent of anxiety he pushed down to focus on the problem at hand.

The _Executor_ loomed large above Nal Hutta, just past Y'Toub's shadow. Han eyed the ship's exterior lines, the acute angles, the gleaming light gray of Kauti design, the grand ludicrousness of its size for the one being in the galaxy who didn't need a battleship with such a pretentious name.

Darth Vader was the galaxy's bane. His fucking Dreadnought didn't need a name like that.

Han heard a soft inhale behind him with senses he'd long-ago devoted to interpreting Leia's fears, few as they were. Nothing scared Leia like Vader.

"Gonna be fine," he muttered. "We're harder to catch than he thinks we are."

 _Powering up the hyperdrive,_ Chewie growled.

"Set mark for a 175 degree trajectory," Han said. "Piece of cake. We'll just sneak past the bastards to the side."

"Sir, I feel it important to remind you that _side_ is not an actual dimension in post-atmospheric space. Perhaps you meant—"

Han spared a venomous glare behind him, mouth pinched and eyes trained on the protocol droid. "You say another goddamned word and I'll shoot you out the airlock."

 _Trajectory marked,_ Chewie said. _Stop threatening Droid and get us out of here._

"Leia, I need you in the turret giving us some cover fire," he said. "Can you handle that?"

The cockpit was quiet for a delicate moment and Han knew that both Threepio and Chewie had seen Leia's spectacular display of … whatever she was. Jedi. Mistryka. The hidden, unlocked power that had saved them from certain capture. Awkward silence reigned and Han had the feeling that three sets of eyes—two biological and one photoreceptor-based—were trained on the back of his head with varying degrees of disbelief.

But here was the thing: he believed in Leia. He believed in her strength and in her ability to function in times of ridiculous, unbelievable stress. He'd _seen_ it. And he believed that she deserved whatever time she needed to deal with this galactic curveball. She needed to talk with Luke and with Han and all the experts left in the galaxy about this Force shit. She deserved the opportunity to come to grips with what it meant _and the fact that she'd just demonstrated that power in front of the galaxy's foremost Jedi-killer._

She had every right to be terrified. She'd just painted a huge target on her back.

The problem was that she couldn't do that now. Like any other aspect of their lives since they'd met on the Death Star, there was no time to be human. And he trusted Leia's judgement without a second of doubt. He trusted her and he knew that having a focus, a mission, might help her process her fears and anger and whatever else she was feeling. He honestly couldn't know and he didn't know if it was his job to try to figure it out. But Leia …. Leia was built of stronger stuff than he was. _That_ he knew with every damn cell in his body.

So he wasn't surprised when the woman of his dreams bit out a quiet _of course_ and rushed out of the cockpit to go kill some Imperial scum.

 _Cub,_ Chewie began once her footsteps were lost to the roar of the sublights. _Little Princess is—_

"Yeah, she is," Han cut him off and flicked on the compensators. "What about it?"

 _We could fire the turrets from here. Perhaps she should rest._

"No," Han said, firm and cold. "No. She's a better shot than the targeting computer and she's got it handled."

 _She's in shock. Is adding more pressure the best idea?_

Han considered the question with care, knowing Chewie wasn't asking it lightly. Leia hadn't remembered that Vader had been on Nar Shaddaa at first; she was a textbook case of shock. He'd seen her hands shake, had seen the wild, almost feral look in her eyes in the airlock. Who knew what she had actually done there on the moon and what the aftershocks would be?

He hadn't seen anything like it. But—

"We met her hours after her planet was destroyed," he muttered. "She can do this, too."

 _Later, Leia,_ he promised her. _We'll sort all this out later. You and me. We'll figure it out._

Han Solo gathered his focus with laser-sharp eyes and grabbed the _Falcon_ 's controls like a man possessed. He'd give Leia that chance if it was the last thing he did.

* * *

Salla Zend watched the the last five crates get loaded into the _Starlight Intruder_ with a visceral fluttering in her stomach. Three hundred and twenty-three crates, stacked precariously high in the main hold, full of enviro-stabilizers for the Rebel Alliance.

She shook her head, wondering at the dramatic shift her life had made in just a few days.

"That it?" a furred Bothan asked as he passed with the last of the crates.

"That's it," she said. "You guys work fast."

The Bothan—a co-pilot named Shi'frey dressed in oil-stained coveralls—dropped the crate onto the _Intruder_ 's decking with a loud thump. Salla winced but didn't say anything.

"When someone offers you six thousand credits for an easy loading job, you do it fast," Shi'frey said.

Salla didn't respond, feeling it was best to keep her hand hidden. Who knew when she would cross paths with Shi'frey again, and she was in the habit of concealing any human emotions whatsoever. She was surprised at that deal, though. Six thousand credits? That was a considerable sum, particularly because she happened to know Shi'frey's captain and didn't think she would appreciate her crew taking side deals while she drank herself into a stupor in the morning.

But Salla was grateful. The crew currently loading the _Intruder_ had been quick, strong and passionless, clearly chosen for their discretion and speed. And she had one person to thank for that.

She turned to the being at her side, reached a palm over gleaming gray skin, looked into beautiful violet eyes. "I owe you big for this," Salla murmured.

Prisht waived her off. "It is nothing."

"It _isn't,"_ Salla insisted. "You've risked everything for us. Gathering your partners, leaving The Distributary, loaning the six grand for the crew … I don't know how to thank you."

Prisht had not left her fortress in years. The Distributary was her home, her freedom. There was nothing she needed outside of her underground enterprise. And Salla would rather die than expect Prisht to compromise her own safety for Salla's benefit. When she had left the _Falcon_ to send an encoded distress signal to the Chev requesting help with the enviro-stabilizers, Salla had assumed Prisht would offer her hand-trucks and hoversleds. Salla could not have imagined that the cargo-speeder that met her at the warehouse twenty minutes later would _also_ hold a thirteen-being crew and Prisht herself.

They'd been loading for only fourteen-and-a-half minutes and the _Intruder_ was now completely ready to depart. The speed was staggering. Salla had anticipated she'd _maybe_ be able to load a fourth of the cargo before the Imps came back and she had to blast out of town in a hurry. But thanks to Prisht, the job was complete and barring any disasters in Y'Toub's heliosphere, Salla could hope to get the entire cargo to the Alliance drop-point safely within the day.

All because of Prisht.

"Salla Zend," Prisht said, stepping close and sweeping a hand into Salla's hair. "You say you believe in the ugly man, this _Han Solo._ You say you believe in the former slave Chewbacca. You brought _mistryka_ to me and allowed me to settle my debt with the one who freed me. I will not repeat this again: I am comfortable with the choice to help you now."

Salla was overcome, moved beyond what she could express. She was not an overly-emotional woman; she'd found much in her life that disappointed her. But this… this was a gesture of great consequence.

She brought her hand to Prisht's, moved it from her hair to her lips, kissed the back of her hand like she'd imagined a gallant knight would.

"How can I repay you?" she murmured.

"Come back when you are able, my love," the Chev responded. "You will always have a home here."

Salla blinked, took a deep breath and hardened her mask. Prisht would soon lose patience with the emotions "Thank you," she concluded, sincere.

"We're done," Shi'fey called from the warehouse. His voice rang in the empty space. "Let's get out of here."

"I must leave. I have been away far too long already," Prisht said.

Salla nodded. "Yeah. You'll take care of the dead slave?"

Prisht's eyes slid to the side, to where the body of Grouka the Hutt's guard lay, and made an agreeable sound low in her throat. "The ugly man vouches for the slave's children?"

Salla bit her lip, unsure. The radio burst from the _Millennium Falcon_ had been unhelpful, reading _dead slave, kids, help them._ She thought perhaps the message had been scrambled and sent by the Wookiee but couldn't be sure. Certainly there was more to the story, but the _Falcon_ was clearly out of the range of short-burst transmissions. And if they risked a message at all, it must have been important.

She nodded.

"Then his children will be safe with me until they can find their own way," Prisht replied. "You have my word. Now go."

Salla looked around, judged their relative privacy, and leaned in for a quick kiss, unable to find a better way to promise that she would return as soon as she could. Prisht's lips turned up into a swift smile before she pressed her hands into Salla's shoulders and pushed her back.

" _Go,_ " she said.

Salla Zend threw her a grin, turned and ran up the ramp of the _Intruder._

* * *

Darth Vader's TIE fighter slid smoothly out of atmosphere, the sublights rumbling comfortably as he affixed his docking computer to the _Executor_ 's premium bay. To port he could see the ridiculous oval shape of a ship he had been chasing for over a year. He didn't pursue the _Millennium Falcon:_ he swept cleanly into the docking bay with barely a thought.

Anakin Skywalker would have been proudly gleeful at the landing. Darth Vader paid it absolutely no heed.

The docking bay was silent as he walked to the bridge, his stride long and loud against the gleaming deckplates. The crew remained quiet as he entered the bridge, the only voices those of the tracking analysts, calmly updating the second-most imposing man on the bridge of the _Millennium Falcon_ 's whereabouts.

"Lord Vader," Admiral Kendal Ozzel greeted him. "We have TIEs awaiting your command per your request."

"Good," Vader said. "Do not fire on the rebels. I want them alive."

Ozzel's mouth slid into a grim line, clearly disagreeing with the command but too experienced with Vader's methods to question his orders. "Aye, sir."

Vader dismissed Ozzel with a wave of his hand and thundered down the gangway to the transparisteel viewport at the very head of the bridge. He liked the vastness of open space; it was calming to him. A vestige of his previous life. The need for freedom, the desire to explore.

Ridiculousness, of course. He'd killed that desire long ago.

 _Obi-Wan._

Vader ordered the TIES to disable the _Millennium Falcon_ however they were able and set about to watch, still thinking of his old mentor. Obi-Wan had been a figment of his not-quite imagination for many years until the old man had set foot on the Death Star. Vader had spent a great deal of time imagining the circumstances of Kenobi's death, had allowed himself grim fantasies of destroying the man who'd … the _monster_ who had allowed Padmé to die.

Vader blocked the thought. That name did not exist any longer. Those memories belonged to another, weaker being.

But Kenobi was not _her_. Whole hours had been spent deciding the appropriate means of death for his former master. If there had been anything left of Anakin Skywalker after Mustafar, it wasn't a love of the expanse; it was the need for revenge against Obi-Wan.

And now there was nothing left. Kenobi was dead.

Vader watched the TIE fighters break into three flight groups, an obvious alignment. He did not expect Han Solo to fall for such easy tricks, but Solo had been injured in the marketplace. Perhaps it was the Wookiee at the helm, Solo's great shadow. Or the princess.

Vader clenched a fist. The princess. Another vestige of the past, a warrior in her own right. Infuriating as only she could be. His master called her _the rebel gnat_ —likely to draw blood for no real purpose whatsoever—but Vader did not wholly agree. The princess was made of sterner metal than that of a simple parasite and he had crossed paths with her efforts far too often to fall for her own tricks.

And now he had learned two entirely new things about her: she was in love with Solo and she was Force-sensitive.

Vader had not seen someone wield the Force quite as she had done in the marketplace. Purely electrical: a kind of blur between light and dark. Self-preservation, of course, but younglings with Force-sensitivity tended to display their potential in other ways. Anakin Skywalker had seen how younglings had been tested by the rotted, corrupted Jedi Council. He did not remember an incident like this from the trials.

From best he could remember, Yoda had been the sole example of the Force working through electricity, though his memories of that particular incident were not to be trusted. He'd lost his hand that day on Geonosis. Such an event tended to rend human memory unreliable.

It seemed ludicrous to think the princess had summoned the stun bolts to her hand and then redistributed it into an electrical wave without assistance. And Yoda was either dead or exiled; Vader had neither heard of him nor felt his presence since the Old Republic had fallen. No one could have helped her; that potential was both terrifying and seductive.

He had not felt such power when she had been his prisoner on the Death Star.

Vader could not definitively rule out his own ignorance. It was possible he'd been shallow in his interrogation, had not looked deep enough for her Force-signature. He hadn't had reason to seek it out and she was a political prisoner, not a Jedi candidate.

But it was strange. He _should_ have felt her.

The easier target, the one whom Vader assigned all responsibility, the hated destroyer of Anakin Skywalker and the sole being who seemed to foil Vader's ends more than any other …

Kenobi _must_ have been involved. Kenobi _must_ have hidden her as he had hidden the other.

Vader watched the TIEs engage the _Millennium Falcon,_ noted the surprising dexterity of the old ship, the pinpoint accuracy of the cover fire. Felt passive, assured of his own plans to interrogate the princess, discover the secret of her power—if indeed it _was_ her power and not a trick of Kenobi's—and then use her capture to lure the one human being Vader most wanted to meet.

Luke Skywalker.

Thin fluttering, the soft touch of a heartbeat that hadn't naturally existed in twenty years.

 _Luke Skywalker. My son._

The _Millennium Falcon_ dove with sudden, unbelievable speed and Vader's distraction dissolved. _Fine piloting_ , he noted. Solo had to have been at the helm. Talent like that had a unique signature all its own. Vader could despise the man and still appreciate the ability. More phantoms of Anakin Skywalker: the ease of mechanical prowess, the adrenaline rush of fine flying, the self-satisfaction in escaping, winning, triumphing. Like a drug, like a stimulant shot straight to the system.

"We have containment," a plain voice said from behind him.

Vader did not turn to Ozzel. "Have the TIEs board the freighter. Ready the tractor beam."

"Yes, sir."

The photon-lenses in his mask searched and found the _Millennium Falcon,_ aft and starboard of the _Executor_ 's bridge. He could barely see it. He turned to face the scene more clearly, used the heightened range of his mask to bring the encounter with the freighter into sharper focus.

 _The princess may yield more information about her Force potential,_ he thought. _She was resistant to the mind probe but perhaps her genetic screening will give me more information._

And then he'd bring her to his master and they'd lure young Skywalker into his care. The galaxy would see the rebel gnat dead before the end of the week, surely.

Vader was about to turn away when a flash of bright orange light blossomed across the viewport. A proton torpedo, it appeared, from an unidentified ship zipping out of the atmosphere of Nar Shaddaa. Alarm bells warbled throughout the bridge: proximity alerts, damage assessments. The docking TIE exploded into brilliant reds and golds and Vader hissed in rage.

"Identify that ship," he said.

"Already attempting it, sir," Ozzel answered. "There are … _fourteen_ aliases. The _Giantess,_ the _Pleasure Excursion._ The _Starlight Intruder._ All are the property of a smuggler of low repute."

"A smuggler of low repute who is taking our prisoners from us," Vader growled. "Destroy it."

But the _Millennium Falcon_ had already shaken loose the three TIEs holding it in containment and had flashed away from the rest of the flight with an insane volley of turbolaser blasts, striking two fighters off its tail in a matter of moments. The CEC freighter swung past the viewport with unpredictable speed, the blue glow of the thrusters sweeping past the transparisteel in one long gritted barely-human teeth as the ship swung low to port.

"You are losing them, Admiral," Vader said, dark and low.

Ozzel scrambled a second flight of TIE fighters with little success and Darth Vader watched as Leia Organa slipped from his grasp again. In the span of an eyeblink, the _Millennium Falcon_ and her smuggler savior had entered hyperspace, leaving the _Executor_ and her massive, powerful force alone and drifting in the most despicable of planetary systems.

Silence on the bridge as the crew awaited Vader's reaction. He let the tension build, felt the stares at his back, twisted his mouth into a hard line that they couldn't see. He would not eliminate Ozzel, not today, not for _this,_ but the time would come and soon.

 _Obi-Wan,_ Vader thought one last time. _Obi-Wan shielded her as he stole my son from me._

With a last, harsh breath, he swept past the bridge into his private quarters, the shell that let him breathe without the mask away from prying eyes. He had a new concern and needed to inform his master.

Leia Organa was Force-sensitive. The plans needed to be altered.

* * *

 _Author's Note:_ Clay and Pearl _is winding down. We have one more chapter to go to tie up some loose ends and an epilogue that is largely the product of faithful readers politely demanding the M-rating. The plans are to take some time after posting the epilogue to finish a challenge fic and the oft-bewoed_ Ride, _and then return to the_ C&P _world for the sequel in the spring or summer. There's far too much story left to tell and I'm a sucker for plots that I am in no way equipped to finish! Stay tuned! - KR_


	37. Gifts

_Gifts_

* * *

They reached the rendezvous point without hassle, pushing the _Intruder_ 's hyperdrive as far as they dared. Salla's ship didn't have the _Falcon_ 's power—she preferred stealth to speed and had always managed just fine, thank you very much—but Han was kind enough to stay trackable throughout hyperspace. Trackable, that is, if one knew where to look.

The ships reverted to realspace into the cold, dark nothingness of interstellar vacuum. Starlight was weak, a bleary crevice between two red dwarfs that brought chills to Salla's spine. Unlike other starship captains she knew, she didn't relish the oblivion. She liked activity, became restless when hanging in limbo aboard a coffin of weightless metal. It was why she worked primarily for clients in and around populated systems like Hutt Space. She was good at sneaking around. Pulverizing through nothing in empty space was not her idea of a good time.

In this one rare instance, though, Salla found joy in the nothingness. Here nothingness meant they weren't all captured and rotting in an Imperial detention cell. She checked her navicomputer; they were just outside the Rindia system, an Outer Rim mess that she'd never had reason to visit. Remote, quiet, stable: an ideal rendezvous point.

She docked the _Intruder_ with the _Falcon,_ crossed through the always vaguely-terrifying airlock of the old CEC freighter. Salla was curious about Han's reaction to her little stunt; she couldn't imagine that he'd be overflowing with gratitude because he never really was. But mostly she wanted to make sure that everyone was okay, that they'd actually escaped the _Executor_ alive, that Chewbacca and the Princess and her stupid, fussy droid were unharmed.

The airlock spiraled open with a concerning groan and the first thing she felt were two strong arms wrapping around her shoulders.

"Salla, I could kiss you," Han said, holding her close.

"Please don't," she responded, unaccustomed to such gratitude. "You got a princess to mind."

He stepped back, unapologetic and grinning, though his smile looked a little forced at the edges. He was also hobbling and favoring one foot. Salla glared at him in rebuke.

"Why the hell aren't you on the medbunk?" she demanded.

"That is a good question," a low female voice said from behind Han. "Salla, _thank you._ "

The princess stepped into the light and Salla was struck by the pure exhaustion radiating from her small body. Her shoulders sagged, the steel-backed posture was gone. She looked like she'd lost all her considerable might in the scramble in the marketplace, though Salla had yet to be debriefed regarding the details of the _Falcon_ 's escape. She'd been busy loading the heaters at the time.

Salla threw Han a quick look but returned her focus to the princess, worried she'd offend Leia if she said what she was really thinking.

Instead she said, "I had help. Prisht sends her regards."

Han flinched at the name but kept his tone steady. "Well now. Surprises all around."

Salla wasn't the best at discerning tension: she had a habit of missing cues unless she was focused on someone in particular. She could mimic well, and she could posture like a pro but she lacked the finesse of an intel agent or a politician in reading a room of people.

But even _she_ could feel the sudden, electric tension in the air, the stilted, unsure waves of discomfort from Leia and Chewbacca. Han seemed immune to it, or perhaps cavalier in the face of it; he grabbed the princess' hand and pretended like nothing was amiss. _A minefield,_ Salla thought, and because she was really quite bad at taking direction, she lunged for the danger like a Karrak out of her cage.

"So do we transfer cargo here? Hit dirt somewhere else and transfer there? What do you wanna do?"

She aimed the question at the princess, assuming her opinion would dictate their actions, but Leia remained quiet, blinked with dull vacancy. Salla turned concerned eyes on Han but his focus was entirely set on Leia, eyes worried and mouth set in a grim line.

Chewbacca answered. _You have earned the trust of the Alliance, Zend. You will carry the cargo yourself to_ Home One.

" _Home One_?"

"Alliance HQ," Han explained, still looking at the princess.

Salla licked her lips, unsure. "That is … is that wise?"

 _Grouka the Hutt is dead,_ Chewbacca growled. _And you are clearly not working for the Imperials or you would not have fired on the TIEs holding us. What allegiance do you hold but for the Alliance?_

She considered that. Grouka had hardly been worthy of her trust, even before he'd gone out of his way to eliminate her. She still had ties to Nar Shaddaa, could perhaps pick up and work for another crime lord. She was good at her job, had a reputation for getting her spice where it needed to go, even if she didn't come close to the _Falcon_ 's speed or reputation for courageous insanity.

But was that what she wanted? To continue along her life as it was, feeding bottom-dwelling scum and ruining lives in the process?

 _No._

Salla felt uncomfortable with the quick answer. This rebellion had been building in her from the moment she'd met the princess, since she'd seen the change in Han Solo in _The Golden Hand_. She'd felt stirrings of conscience, the last gasps of honor. She'd initially agreed to work with Targeter in a fit of self-hatred, the need to make a goddamned choice in the face of the grime and ulceric degradation of the Hutts. And here …. Here was a chance to do it for real.

"Prisht," she murmured. "I can't just leave her."

Particularly after the Chev had risked everything to help her. She'd left her home, had spent thousands of credits to aid the crew of the _Falcon,_ to obtain the heaters. And while some of that was assuredly Prisht's belief in assisting Leia Organa as payment to the _mistryka_ who had freed her a generation ago, most of it was in support of Salla herself.

Quiet in the hold. Over the system intercom, the fussy droid from earlier in the day reported to no one in particular that there were no ships in-system. They all ignored him, but the update was a relief. The last thing they needed was to be jumped by pirates after one hell of an escape from Darth Vader's clutches.

"What if you worked as a liaison _to_ Prisht?" a quiet voice said.

They all turned to the princess. She was still pale, small. Haunted, almost. But her eyes shone with a spark of defiance, and Salla felt the ironclad grip of fear dissolve from the hold. Like a switch being flipped: shoulders dropped, a collective breath of relief.

"Liaison?" Salla asked. "Prisht doesn't hold an Alliance contract."

 _Yet,_ Chewie added.

"An operative on Nar Shaddaa would make things significantly easier for our espionage networks in the system," Leia continued. "Safe port and connections with reliable smugglers… All of that would be of extreme value to the Alliance."

Salla considered it. "I mean, I can see if she'd be willing—"

"It's a sweet deal," Han interrupted. "Fly cargo for the good guys, see your girlfriend when you can."

 _Is that what you're planning to do, Han?_ None of her business how Solo conducted his private affairs, though it was obvious to her _something_ had changed over the last three days. His hand still clutched Leia's and he stood next to her like a shadow, connected and inseparable. Like he was afraid she'd keel over if he left her for too long.

Salla shook her head. "This is a lot to consider."

 _Consider it,_ Chewie warbled. _We could all join at the same time._

Salla blinked, confused, unsure if she'd understood the Shyriiwook correctly. "Joining?"

Han shrugged, glanced down to Leia at his side. "No time like the present."

Salla eyed the group, the startlingly bizarre cohort they made. A former Wookiee slave, indebted to a Corellian smuggler who was in love with a princess. And they wanted her to join them, too.

"I'll consider it," she demurred, wanting to speak with Prisht first before she signed anything definitive. General wariness of business contracts had kept her alive in the past and she needed time to go through all the logistics.

But it was tempting. Very tempting.

"In the meantime," Han said, running his hand up Leia's arm and squeezing her shoulder, "I have something for you."

Salla arched an eyebrow nd watched a complex series of looks travel between the captain and his first mate. After a moment, Chewie nodded and Han stepped away from the princess, waving at Salla to follow him.

Being inside the _Falcon_ again was a strange experience. When they'd been together, Han had spent far more time with her on the _Intruder_ than she had with him on the _Falcon._ At the time she'd thought it was because he loved her and therefore took her comfort into account. Her safety secured: the kindness she believed was only for her.

But the intervening years had taught her that her comfort had probably _not_ been his ultimate concern. Male ship captains usually felt the need to distance their trysts away from their homes, a vagrant kind of compartmentalization. There was security in leaving vulnerability outside of one's own ship. On-planet, smugglers were at one hundred percent vigilance, even while in the throes of passion. It was safer to fuck around on someone else's turf and then fall asleep locked up in yours.

Inviting someone into your home, the vulnerability of that small concession, was dangerous.

She'd had meals here, been a passenger once or twice. But sex was an activity for the _Intruder_ or a rundown hotel. And years later she found herself wondering at how far removed they'd actually been from each other when they'd been an item.

"So you're joining up?" she asked in the corridor outside the captain's quarters. "That's a big step."

Han grunted the affirmative as he opened the cabin hatch and led her through. The room was half-lit, a blue haze over everything. He waved the lights to full brightness and Salla blinked as the overhead fluorescent panels burst into life. Uncluttered and undecorated, the cabin was the essence of Han Solo's bare, gruff utility: unremarkably strange. Gravitic shelving on one side, a sealed closet, a large bunk spot-welded into the corner, some shipping crates to the side that seemed to function as a desk.

And that was it. No personality. Very clean and regimented: the bunk made to spotless Imperial perfection. But lacking a feeling of home. No trinkets or personality in sight.

"Never saw this place," she murmured. "It looks exactly how I imagined it would."

He shrugged. "Really," he said.

She shook head at his tone, the bald, arresting truth out there and open between them and marvelled as they just … moved on with it. Like a persistent ache: not debilitating. A fact of life.

Salla stood near the hatch, arms crossed over her breasts, uncomfortable. It was awkward, being alone with him when things had changed so drastically. Human adults could handle this like civilized beings, couldn't they? Neither Chewbacca nor Leia seemed concerned that Han and Salla had disappeared into the cabin and that felt strange, too: their full trust implicit in a situation that should be threatening to one or both of them.

If it had been a decade ago and Han had led _Leia_ to his cabin in Salla's presence, she would have pitched a fit. Jealousy was a dangerous animal and one that seemed to follow young relationships wherever they led.

And with a quiet _thunk,_ Salla Zend realized that she confidently left Prisht to her own devices without a shred of doubt that she was committed to Salla alone. Routinely. Had done so for years.

The revelation tugged her lips upward.

"I, uh … I have something that I think you should have," Han said as he struggled toward the bunk, his foot causing him a great deal of pain judging by the grunts under his breath.

With a sigh he knelt at a shipping crate serving as a kind of nightstand and rifled through its contents. He set the items on the bunk as he went: a small holopad, a hold-out blaster, what looked like an ancient multitool. She watched him carefully, unable to help herself from examining what he chose to put on the bed and what he shuffled through without removing from the crate.

 _Men,_ she thought. _So weirdly private about some things and so flagrantly obvious about others._

With a huff, he brought out a box and set it on the bunk. He looked up at her, almost in challenge, and she moved to sit on the bunk next to him, the crate tools and box between them.

"That," he said, waving to the box, "belongs to you."

She arched an eyebrow. "If this is old lingerie you stole from me—"

Han made a face. "It ain't lingerie, for fuck's sake."

Salla laughed under her breath at his tone, so offended, like his current nice-guy status spared him from such immature acts in his past. She picked up the box: small, plain and uninscribed. She carefully lifted the small lid and peered inside. "Then what—"

She froze, shocked.

Inside a nest of flimsies and straw was a threadbare, ugly blue badge, the size of her palm. The six-armed star at its center reflected a dull light from the overhead panels and she could discern a bald patch near the top where the badge had been stroked by a thumb.

She lifted it from the box, eyed it carefully, aware of Han's eyes on her. She was wordless, shocked, completely floored.

"This is your guild badge," she whispered after a moment. "You said you didn't keep it."

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him shrug. "Lied."

She turned it in the overhead lights, watching the frayed thread curl from the end of the badge like flyaway hair from a top-knot. When she turned to look at him, Han was staring at her, weight on one foot and eyes wary and kind.

"I don't understand," she murmured.

Han blew out his breath and lumbered to the bunk, sitting next to her on its edge. "Look, I know it's not thirty thousand credits and that it's not _yours_ because yours got blown up—"

"Not just blown up. Incinerated," she argued.

"Fine. _Incinerated,"_ he conceded with a short, pained grin. "But I owe you a lot for helping Leia and Chewie and me. And I want you to take it."

She blinked and looked back down to the badge in her hand. Her smuggler's guild badge had been a treasured item, a reminder that Salla had at one time been a good person, had fought for a good cause. For once in her life she'd felt like a part of something larger than herself. Most of the survivors of the Battle of Nar Shaddaa had scattered to the wind after the Imperial force had been defeated, their identities kept secret for their own safety. The badge had been the only proof—real, concrete evidence—that she had made the right choice.

Which was precisely why Grouka had demanded she use it as collateral in her work.

It had been stupid, getting attached to such a small thing, but she couldn't have helped it. Like a talisman or a touchstone: she wasn't sure which. The badge had both felt like a promise to herself and a guard against the worst of her nature.

Losing it had been a quiet heartbreak.

Salla pressed her lips together and tightened her hand into a fist. "I can't take this," she said, and tried to hand it back to him.

But Han shifted backwards, childishly moving out of reach. "Nuh-uh. You did a damn good thing, Sal."

"I _didn't_ do anything—"

Han rolled his eyes. "Savin' our asses all over the place out there? The hell do you think a good thing is?"

She held up her hands. "Han, seriously. Between us, who blew up a fucking Death Star?"

"Luke did," he replied too quickly. Practiced. Like he'd said it often. "And besides: what does that have to do with anything?"

"I don't deserve—"

"Sal, _take the fucking badge."_

Han's voice belonged in a basement: it was so low. He was earnest and proud about giving her this one small thing. A little gesture. Something that he felt she deserved.

Salla met his eyes, ready to put up a fight, but when she opened her mouth no words came out. She didn't know how to refuse him, didn't know how to tell him that she didn't want the badge and also couldn't stand the thought of building a new lore for a new talisman. It felt … it was _transformative._ Whether she accepted a contract with the Alliance or not, this badge would summon her higher angels. And that was a mighty risk for a criminal, for a low-life like herself.

She opened her hand, looked at the badge again. She thought about the people who had this badge, the anonymous fame. She thought about Mako and Rewve and Isakk. Chewie. _Han._

Would she call any of them a _low-life_? No.

"Thank you," she murmured to her hand and brought it to her chest, a new touchstone, a new reminder of who she could be.

"Yeah," he murmured, standing, suddenly uncomfortable. "Hey, if I don't get Leia into the medbay soon, she's never gonna go. So, I, uh …. Yeah."

Still humming with the warmth of a treasured gift, it took Salla a moment to register that he was changing the subject, perhaps even asking her to leave. The image of the princess, pale and hollow, swept before her eyes and Salla realized she had one chance to find out the truth.

"Han?" Salla asked. "What happened to her?"

She was _so curious._ There was a heaviness in the _Falcon_ and it concentrated on the young princess. Salla had no idea why Leia needed a medscan, though she clearly _did_ need one. Han, on the other hand, looked frenzied despite his injury, busy and almost frantic. Worried and unable to process it. Helpless, which was ridiculous because Han Solo was anything but.

The disparity was alarming.

Han stopped in his tracks like she'd stunned him. "You didn't see?"

"See _what?"_

He turned back to her, hooked his thumbs into his belt. "In the marketplace. With Vader."

 _Oh, shit._ "He was on-planet? You _saw_ him?"

"Close as I am to you," Han said. "Leia between me and him."

Salla swallowed, imagining.

"Thing is," Han continued, wiping a hand over his mouth. "Leia fired at him."

 _Of course she did,_ Salla thought. She would have done the same thing. Put a blaster bolt into that motherfucker and make the galaxy a better place for them all.

She suspected it wasn't that easy or someone would have done it a long time ago.

"Okay," Salla said. "So they stunned her. But I've never seen anyone look like that coming out of a stun-blast.."

"No."

Salla leaned in, clutching the badge in her fist, elbows on her knees. Han's frenzy seemed to solidify into one big, concrete thing right in front of her, taking shape like durasteel bent by fire. Molding of a new, visceral feeling. Matter of out the void.

Creepy as shit.

"They shot at her. Us. Whatever," he said. "She stopped 'em."

Salla waited for clarification: none came. "What do you mean? _Stopped them?_ "

"Held out her hand, sucked it all in and then threw it back at them. All that energy. And then she blacked out and I caught her just as Chewie got the tractor beam on us."

Salla swallowed, watched Han struggle to define the absurd power he had witnessed. It had obviously affected him greatly, he couldn't seem to stand still even as one of his feet carried no weight. His fists clenched and his eyes wandered around the cabin, never stopping on any point for too long. _Spooked,_ Salla thought. _Spooked but trying to hide it._

"I told you," Salla said. "I _told_ you. She's mistryka. Jedi. She's powerful."

Han stared at her, trouble lining his mouth, eyes soft with vague pleading hidden in their depths. "Sal, I can't protect her from that. I can't … he's gonna come after her."

She swallowed, realizing the crux of the problem as the words left his mouth. He wasn't scared _of her,_ he was scared _for her,_ the power running in her blood the thing that had both saved their lives and now added more risk.

The Jedi were extinct, exterminated one-by-one by the Emperor and Vader. Children were taught that the Jedi had been corrupt and foul, that they'd served their own ends and had to be destroyed for the good of the galaxy. But, as with most things, the people on the fringe saw truth behind the gaslighting, and if you were a smuggler, or a slave, or of poor breeding or any part of a marginalized group that did not fit into the Imperial mold, you knew that the Jedi had been killed because of their potential to destroy the system.

Which meant that Leia Organa really _could_ take down the Empire.

"No, Han. _No,"_ Salla said, and stood up to stand in front of him. "She's gonna destroy _them._ "

* * *

 _Author's Note: Lies! One more chapter and then the epilogue. Salla got wordier than I expected and I couldn't get to … the next part. :) -KR_


	38. Faith

_Faith_

* * *

Leia thought about fear.

She sat on the edge of the _Falcon_ 's makeshift med bunk, hands clenched at her sides. Her back curved in a self-conscious shell, her shoulders too heavy to sit with their usual regal grace. Her vertebrae felt compressed by the ship's artificial gravity, like space had been obliterated between the joints of her spinal column. Bone on bone, ligaments ungreased, a low ache she felt but of which she couldn't determine the source. Weariness in every muscle—every last one, all of them—the picture of exhaustion and … and _fear._

Torn between shock and the trickling unease of her own actions, she floated in a self-directed wave of focus. If her body was going to show such weakness, her mind certainly couldn't. She could do complex tasks on autopilot. She'd done it before. She'd do it again.

Her eyes followed Han as he moped around the small alcove. He limped, groaned, muttered curses beneath his breath in Basic and Corellian and a few colorful languages she couldn't identify. She tracked his movements closely, ready to use the intercom to call for Chewie if he fell or collapsed right in front of her. It was a distinct possibility: he'd been injured in the marketplace.

And again: _fear._ She saw it in the line of his back, the slant of his eyes, the way he seemed to grit his teeth against his own pain. Fear of not knowing what she was. Fear of her physical health. Fear of the future. Whatever it was that scared him.

Such a universal feeling, fear.

Han had only agreed to his own medscan after she'd let him run one on her. He was barely walking—she would dare to call it a _wobble_ if she wanted a good fight—and yet he insisted on eliminating any doubt that she was in danger of electrocution. The fear in the depths of his green eyes stopped her short from hopping off the med bunk and pushing him bodily away. She couldn't blame him. If what he said was true, if she'd done what he said she'd done, then she could hardly deny him the opportunity to ensure her safety.

Her safety … or his own.

Flat, bald fear. Sweeping through her chest like a firestorm, ablaze and whirling. Somewhere in her better brain—the one that wasn't repeatedly traumatized—she noted that her emotional self had just now, _just this moment,_ decided to fear that Han was scared _of_ her. The past hour was chock-full of stray, rampant thoughts about Han but they'd never quite struck this chord. She'd considered that he might think she'd lied to him about this latent power of hers; or that Vader had concocted the whole confrontation to alienate her from the rest of the Alliance. And she'd thought he fretted for her safety: that seemed a logical interpretation of his actions.

If he was scared _of her_ then the smallest glimpse of hope she'd had over the past day had been utterly crushed. The sensation was surprisingly lethargic. No rush of tears, no self-flagellation. A dim, dark acceptance. Secondary to her fear of the power she'd tapped when she'd had no other recourse. The larger problem loomed, terrifying and vast, and in comparison the image of the man she loved walking away from her made her feel nothing. Cold. Vacuous.

 _You are in shock,_ her better brain told her. _You are not dispassionate about this possibility. It is the opposite. This hurts, will hurt, will not stop hurting. Inevitable, not an_ if _but a_ when.

But she couldn't feel what she didn't feel. She had no inner resource of heat to melt the ice. Fear trapped her in this emotionless prison, fear made her sit on the med bunk and eye Han as he hitched around the alcove.

 _Stopped stun bolts._

Leia couldn't find meaning in those words. She had a brief glimpse of feelings, of extraordinary pressure to act, a deep desire in her chest to somehow thwart Vader's intentions, a bright flash of protectiveness for Han's safety and well-being. But she had no memory of how she'd done it and everyone was fairly skittish about bringing it up. At some point, she could probably request to view the _Falcon_ 's holo-recordings, if the cam had been functioning at the time. That might be the only way she could get some answers—

"Huh," Han muttered, staring at the holopad in his hand.

 _Huh_ sounded ominous, but it was better than listening to him groan as he dragged his injured foot around the small space. It was also better than sitting, empty and waiting, while Han decided she was dangerous.

"What is it?" she asked.

He looked up at her, handed her the datapad. "Everything's in the clear. You're fine."

Leia took a look, scrolled through the basic head-to-toe scan Han had performed, the thermo-readings, the calcium content of her bones, the flowing lines of electric currents passing through her central nervous system. No internal bleeding, no mylenin stores, nothing remarkable about her physio-chemical readings. Normal, normal, normal. All of it, normal.

 _You are not normal,_ her better brain told her. _But that does not mean you are broken._

"Don't sound so disappointed," she said out loud, handing the datapad back to him.

"No, I—I'm not disappointed," he said. "I'm glad you aren't injured or sick or whatever. I'm just trying to figure shit out. This ain't like you got shot."

She rolled her eyes. "Right. I didn't get shot. _You did."_

"There should be burn marks," he mumbled to himself, completely ignoring her. "Tissue damage. Weird carbon deposits. Something."

"This is ridiculous," she said. "I am not hurt but you are. Get over here."

He looked up, raised his eyebrows and gave her a pointed, stupid look. "Yeah. Ridiculous. Because people always shoot lasers out of their hands."

She couldn't interpret that comment. Part of her heard the jest; part of her heard recrimination. And she felt absolutely nothing about either of those possibilities, a big hole where her emotional responses should be.

But she'd be damned if she didn't put up a fight. "I didn't _shoot lasers._ It sounds like deflection at most. And even then you can't be sure of what you saw. Vader was there, Han. You can't trust your eyes."

Han dropped the datapad onto the med bunk next to her but remained standing, looming over her. He blocked the light and cast Leia into shadow.

"I know what I saw," he said. "It wasn't a trick and it wasn't deflection. It wasn't like bolts hitting a magno-shield."

She licked her lips, tired of this conversation. "Whatever it was, I'm fine now _._ Can I please run the scan on you? Preferably before you develop an infection?"

He considered her for a moment, eyes tracking hers, then gave a curt nod. With a grimace he dropped to the med bunk beside her, more a fall than anything but she wasn't about to tell him that. He handed her the medscanner and extended his injured leg with a loud _pop_ of his knee.

Leia focused on her task, relieved for the space. Emergency medicine had a cooling element to it: immediate attention needed and very little self-reflection involved. She could clean and wrap injured feet without a thought, she'd done it often. And the _Falcon_ was stocked better than it usually was; she suspected Chewie had made the requisite supply run in full understanding of what a mission to Nar Shaddaa might entail. As ever, she was thankful for Han's first mate, for his care and forethought and the wonderful being he was.

Her heart dipped when she remembered his careful side-step when she'd tried to hug him earlier.

The scanner beeped its readiness and Leia aimed it at Han's boot. Normally she would remove any clothing before running a scan, but with a blaster burn on a heel, she suspected it would be prudent to see if any of the nerf-leather had melted into the wound. She didn't want to peel off his boot only to open a cauterized wound without preparing for a big, bloody mess.

One long minute passed. She noticed Han's uninjured knee shake, noted the way his injured leg kept rigidly still, as if movement was traitorous. She didn't respond but felt a wave of exasperated fondness for Han Solo, the way his gruff courage showed even in his reaction to pain.

 _Yes, feel,_ her better brain opined. _Feel something. Good._

The hand scanner beeped again and Leia set it aside to pick up the datapad. The results weren't surprising: Han's heel was burned, the wound cauterized. The inside layer of his boot had melted into slag right at the point of torn skin. They'd have to cut the boot off and then apply an acidic solvent to eat away the melted leather, then apply bacta. The sooner they got the leather away from the wound, the better.

She shifted to stand, ready to call Chewie in to help her prepare the solvent, but was stopped when Han grabbed her wrist. Leia looked at him: eyes wide, startled.

 _Wake up,_ her better brain whispered. _If it's pain you need to feel it. If it's joy you need to feel it, too. Life is a mix of both._

"Leia," Han said.

She swallowed, fought the rising tide of panic that his tone triggered. It wasn't _sweetheart_ or _worship_ that he said; it was _Leia._ And in these circumstances, when her resolve to carry on as usual felt as tenuous as the _Falcon_ 's hyperdrive, she felt like he was saying something poignant and true just with one word. Her name.

"I don't want to talk about it." she murmured.

" _Leia,"_ he repeated.

She looked at her hands, grasping the datapad with white knuckles. _No, stop,_ she ordered her better brain. _This fear can stay away for awhile longer. It will come in time but not now, not now, please._

She blinked away her tears, held her composure with powerful fists.

He moved his hand from her wrist to her palm, intertwining their fingers and setting them on his thigh. That sight was almost more than Leia could stand: their fingers woven together, star-tanned and fair, power and slim utility. Terrifying and intimate, more intimate than the kisses of last night before all of this … this _mess …_

The dam broke, her shields annihilated, her emotions freed. She felt them all, the pain, the terror the anger and heartbreak. Drowning in emotions she didn't want, wasn't prepared to handle, couldn't stop herself from feeling. Her stomach clenched, an insipid pain burst in the depths of her intestines where primal emotion lived. She felt like a snake had just moved between her organs, twisting them up into scraps. Her breath came frail and stilted, rattling from her throat. Her hands shook in his and her eyes couldn't stop the unleashing of tears.

This is what she didn't want to feel: the utter and total loss of control.

And suddenly her better brain winked out of existence and now there was only fear, rambling and buzzing through her chest and behind her eyes and between her ears. Fear of her own safety. Fear of Vader, what he would do now that she'd demonstrated uncanny power. Fear of her own death, surely an even bigger priority for the Emperor now. And, yes, under it all, a fear that Han would leave her and not look back.

She would be a fool to not consider it a possibility. It was not her foremost fear but it was insistent, worrying, the straw that had broken the bantha's back.

Because _how could he want to stay?_

She'd seen him deny Luke's abilities. She'd heard him scorch the existence of higher forces, that they were alone in the universe, that destiny played no part in his life. Luke's idealism shone in the dark and Han was the shadow over it all, kicking at it until it was a big mess on the ground. He had no space for mysticism or religion; thought believers were suckers and fools. He couldn't even accept the proof of Luke's power; how— _how_ —could she expect him to accept hers?

And he was stubborn. Hard-headed. An immovable object. She had no desire to run but, _Force,_ it was hard to sit here and pretend that it wasn't all falling apart around her. If he started talking, she'd lose any chance she had to see where their relationship went. Childishly, she'd thought she could arrest the notion by simply pretending all was fine. She'd taken the turret, allowed the scan, argued with him about his injury …. All in an effort to forestall the coming send-off.

Stabbing, broken pain, like vibro-blades into her chest.

 _I fucked up,_ he'd say, and he'd be sorrowful about it. He cared, she didn't doubt that now. But caring about someone did not mean one was willing to accept this … monstrous … power, so uncontrolled, so dangerous.

 _Don't leave,_ she pleaded. _Don't leave. Please don't leave._

"Salla mentioned something to me a few days ago," he began. He grabbed the datapad and tossed it on the med bunk with the scanner. "And I'm wondering if maybe it'll help."

Help. She wanted to laugh. "If this is a story about spice—"

"It's not."

She swallowed and looked at him, his eyes meeting hers: the soft, steady look of bottle-green, the ring of brown. He was trying to tell her something important and Leia knew her avoidance would not stand up against his stubbornness.

But the layers of protection were so strong after Alderaan. Durasteel thick, with duracrete below it. He'd pierced those shields before; she was terrified to let him in again. Because if he said _I fucked up and I'm leaving once I get you to base,_ the shields would slam down faster than a rainstorm on Tatooine. And part of her had really cherished the idea, terrifying though it was, that she could let him in, embrace a new intimacy with him. That she could begin to forge ties, rejoin humanity after losing her world, her culture, her family and her home.

Her fear was so strong that it felt like it could swallow her whole.

"She mentioned that, uh," he began, hesitant and awkward. "That some of the things you do seem kind of weird."

"Weird."

Not a question. Her better brain had disappeared and all that was left was a rolling storm of chemicals. All she could do was repeat.

"Just, uh, you do things that don't make sense but they work out in the end. Trusting the right people, knowing the right card to play? Shit like that."

She shook her head, a ready answer on her lips. "That's political training. It's micro expressions and tone of voice and body language studies."

She wasn't sure why she was denying the power, other than it felt like she should. Like she had done it often. A reflex.

A spark, small and low, flickered to life in her mind.

Han hadn't sensed the change, was still arguing. "You closed a door without touching it. I saw you do it."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Most doors close without someone touching it. The beauty of automata."

 _What was that?_ she thought. The excuse came out without her permission, a kind of knee-jerk defense.

The spark grew brighter.

"And Grouka? How'd you know how to play him? You knew _exactly_ what to say to keep him busy until Salla showed up."

Leia sighed, smiled softly as she looked at the hull in front of her. "It's charming, the role reversal here. Powers, Han? Powers instead of watching for facial cues and analyzing the room and determining the best possible plan of attack? You sound like Luke."

 _That isn't what you did with the Hutt,_ a voice whispered to her, clear as day. _You analyzed nothing. You used the Force._

The spark was burning bright now, a lamp in the darkness. A word for it: Force. Like a flame bursting to life in the dark, inhaling oxygen like a human choking. Her fear fought against it and the flame would retreat but it always returned.

Han shook his head, frustrated. Leia watched him, the arch of his back, the way his shoulders fell forward. "Leia, I think you're like Luke. I think you're a Jedi."

The flame exploded into a forest fire, eating up acres of her brain in milliseconds, cleansing and destructive all at once. _Force. Jedi._

Then out of the depths an image. Blurry, like seeing through water, hidden and unbidden but real, true, a memory folded and compressed into the recesses of her consciousness. She saw a man, auburn-haired with a beard, leaning over to look at her with blue-gray eyes. Weariness tugged at the ends of his mouth, the dark circles beneath his eyes. He brought a palm to her head, whispered an unintelligible word, and Leia felt safe, warm, unable or unwilling to think of the word he'd spoken.

"Leia?"

She snapped back into focus, the memory fading as quickly as it had been unearthed. The image that swam before her was Han, careful and concerned. He swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing, his eyes worried. He seemed to be nervous, unable to be quiet.

"Salla and Prisht call you _mistryka._ It's the Chev word for Jedi."

Leia remembered that word, the power it had held over Prisht, the way it had almost forced her agreement to help shelter them after they'd fled Stone's flat. The way the Chev had looked at her, the head tilt, the soft eyes, the strange tone of voice.

" _Mistryka,_ " she murmured.

"Yeah," Han whispered, nodding. "They're sure about it, Sweetheart, and I gotta be honest with you here: I think they're right."

The shock was gone and the emotions had taken over. Not self-hatred or self-loathing—she wasn't quite capable of that yet, though she knew from experience they were lurking on the perimeter—but fear, yes. Fear was palpable in the medbay. She felt it on her skin, in the prickle on the nape of her neck. She felt it take hold of her chest, seize her lungs. Swimming in fear, welling up with anxious, bitter tears.

A Jedi. Like Luke.

The Imperial reward for the capture of Luke Skywalker was astronomical. It was nearly double anyone else's, more than hers and Han's combined. Mon Mothma's reward didn't come close and she was the linchpin that held the Alliance together. And whether that had to do with the Alliance's high publicity of the destruction of the Death Star or the rabid purge of the Jedi before she was born, she didn't know. Rumor had it Luke was wanted by Vader himself, a pawn for the Dark Lord to destroy as he had done to the Jedi Order.

That was enough fear right there. She'd already been privy to one genocide. But then … the _power._ The capacity to destroy. The darkness she could wield at her fingertips. There was talk that Vader himself had been a Jedi, that his incredible power came not from the Emperor but his own training as a Knight. A well of great power, a well that could be twisted into darkness or light depending on the individual?

She didn't want that. She didn't want that power at all.

She'd already proved she was capable of enormous harm. Stopping stun bolts? With her hands? That was no feat Luke had demonstrated. That was no incalculably small proton torpedo launching.

Fear. Strong and hard. Fear loosened her tongue and she said what she would normally never dare to say out loud, least of all to Han, the eternal skeptic. Han, whom she wouldn't blame for turning tail and running just by the rancid power running through her fingers. It was a testament to the fear that she even opened her mouth, much less gave voice to her worst fear.

"What if I am not like Luke? What if I am like Vader?"

Han's face changed instantly, as she knew it would. But instead of the fear, instead of the revulsion she'd anticipated, she saw ferocity. She saw absolute faith. His eyes were arresting on hers, he gripped her hands like they were the lifeboat that would save him from drowning.

"You could _never,_ " he said, emphasized, articulated with wild conviction. "Leia, no."

"It's the same power, it's—it's a … a well of darkness, Han, and I don't know, I can't know which I am."

"I do."

She stopped, the universe stopped, the noise and the fear and the chaos in her mind stopped cold and the only thing was his confidence. She noticed the stubble on his jaw, the dried mud on his cheek. The detail of the scene stood out in sharp relief and she couldn't breathe for all the information suddenly at her disposal, all of it about Han Solo, at this very minute, so calm and sure it felt like a pronouncement from a demigod of myth.

"Look, I'm not gonna tell you that I understand any of this," he began. "I don't. I can't wrap my head around it and the fact that you can … that you can tap into something like that … it's a lot to process."

Leia waited, hanging onto his every word.

"But there's only a couple things I believe in, because the the galaxy is a fucking cold place. And when you find people to trust, you hold onto them with everything you got. That's my experience, at least."

She could feel it, could feel the relief in the corner of the room. It was closing in, she could tell. A warmth blossomed in her chest and she knew what he was about to say, the absolute certainty, the faith and she'd never needed it so badly in her life as she did in this moment, with him.

He squeezed her fingers, leaned in toward her. "I believe in the _Falcon._ I believe in Chewie. I believe in Luke bein' good. And I believe in _you._ "

The relief crept closer, inching against the dull, scuffed deck plating, but she had one last question. "How?"

How could he just know? How could his faith be so complete that nothing else mattered? The facts in front of his eyes, the evidence? He'd seen the power, he'd felt it, he'd experienced it. And he could just _trust her?_ She didn't trust herself, didn't have faith in anything anymore. And a man who believed in nothing but the things he could see, the man who denied the existence of destiny and the Force and all things mystical … _he_ was the one to trust her?

How?

His hand left hers, lifted, brushed against her cheek. His palm felt rough, calloused, his fingers long, sweeping the hair out of her eyes. And his eyes, _oh,_ his eyes were green-gold and bold, vibrant in the artificial lighting. His eyes were the truest thing she'd ever seen, absolutely fervent in his need for her to understand.

The relief touched her feet, slid up through her chest, forcing the anxious snake to recoil and filling her with borrowed hope.

"I love you," he said. "And that's how I know."

She sucked in a breath, closed her eyes, leaned her body against the wall of his chest so that he could hold her up and enclose her in his arms. The tears were there but they didn't fall. She'd experienced the whiplash of so many emotions in a short period of time and she wasn't sure where exactly she would land. Hope? She didn't think so. She didn't know what to think of herself, what to do, how to proceed from here. Anger? No, there was no point to it. Useless anger did nothing but decay; she'd learned that lesson after the destruction of Alderaan. Fear? Yes, partially. She was afraid of herself and the nature of her power, the future, Vader's role in it.

But overwhelmingly the emotion she felt more than any other was gratefulness.

"Don't say anything now," Han mumbled into her hair. "You tell me when you feel it, huh?"

She huffed a watery laugh. "Don't tell me what to do," she whispered.

"Course not," he "Wouldn't dream of it."

She nestled in closer, tucked her nose into the salt-sweat of his shirt, the space between buttons where she could feel the warmth of bare skin. Her heart-rate slowed with his, her arms wrapped around his chest and Leia felt safe for the first time in hours.

"What if I feel it now?" she asked in a small voice.

Han made a low sound in his throat, contemplative. His warmth felt like bacta without the sting. Only benefit, no harm. He chuckled; Leia's head moved with the movement of his chest, his hands caressing her back with slow, sure strokes.

"Bad timing," he murmured. "Tell me later."

Leia shook her head but didn't argue with him, feeling he might actually be right. She knew she loved him, had admitted it to herself days ago. But Han deserved to know that she meant it, that she loved him with as much care and faith as he loved her. She didn't want the first time he heard those words from her to be surrounded in her fear and anxiety, when she wasn't sure about herself. He'd earned more than that. She wanted him to know her truth as unequivocally as she knew his.

So she closed her eyes, settled into the warmth of his chest, feeling the weight of the galaxy, of Vader and the Alliance and a newfound power she did not understand or trust, ebb at the edges but the center was firm. The center remained strong, resilient. And as with all things, she figured they could figure it out together.

* * *

 _Author's Note: Nice to end on a happy note, isn't it? The epilogue comes next, as epilogues do, and will be posted in two weeks. I also wanted to give a shout-out to my lovely guest reviewers, particularly the individual who writes me beautiful novels that make me feel heard and all gooey inside. Thank you so much, my dear friends! Your words are no less cherished for not having a name attached to them! -KR_


	39. Epilogue

_Epilogue_

* * *

Things moved fast after they made it back to _Home One_.

A whirlwind of activity, energy whipping around troops and ships and pilots in insane, frenetic gales. The Alliance always felt like they were on the edge of electrocution, but this was different, lighter. The corridors buzzed, excited murmuring a constant drone between Alliance personnel. Hope simmered, bubbled, and then exploded among the ranks, from ensigns to admirals and back down again. They couldn't hide it and they didn't want to. For the first time in months the Alliance to Restore the Republic could move forward, do something tangible, fight their foe in a visceral way. Everyone could feel the energizing power of their work.

Everyone, that was, except for Han Solo. He was trapped, held against his will in an isolation ward of the _Home One_ medcenter, and he was going to bitch about it to anyone who could hear him.

"Get me outta here, pal," he said, eyeing Chewbacca in the far corner of the medbay partition. "They told me I could leave in an hour _three hours ago_."

 _You would not be here at all if you had listened to Little Princess,_ the Wookiee growled, playful but firm. _She told you to clean the wound immediately and you did not._

He scowled. "Traitor."

Chewie didn't take the bait, ruthless peacefulness everywhere around him this evening. _How do you feel?_

In point of fact, Han felt fine. He'd done three laps around the medbay earlier this morning—under strict medical supervision, of course, stuck as he was in this goddamned deck—and Two-One-Bee had seemed pretty certain of his discharge later this afternoon. Han's wound had finally closed after a painful, drawn-out fight against a nasty microbe he'd picked up on Nar Shaddaa sometime between when his knee had hit the dirt and when the _Falcon_ 's tractor beam had snatched them up. The infection had landed him straight here, in Medbay Hell Number Six, for three days.

Three _days._

"I feel great," Han answered, trying not to sound too eager. "Great. Perfect. Couldn't be better."

 _I heard you refused bacta treatment,_ Chewie growled. _Could that be part of the reason you're still here?_

Yeah. Han winced, knowing Chewie was going to bug him about that for awhile. The Wookiee trusted medical personnel, put stock in what the droids said, followed the orders of the sentient physicians when on the receiving end of their care. So did Leia, and Luke and Antilles and everyone else.

But…. _Well_. Han plain didn't like the medcenter. And he _really_ didn't like bacta tanks. A little salve was fine. Being unconscious and at the mercy of a Two-One-Bee for who-knew-how-long? No, sir. Not gonna happen while he was awake and fighting..

"Hate those things," he muttered. " _Hate 'em_."

 _You act like a cub, Cub,_ Chewie said.

Han waved a hand in reply, feeling contrary and churlish.

 _The treatment is tested and sound. You would have been discharged within the first day._

Han rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. I get it."

 _The length of your stay here is no one's fault but your own._

"I said _I get it,_ Chewie," he argued. "Stop kicking me while I'm down, huh?"

Chewie lapsed into thoughtful silence, eyeing Han carefully. Han grew uncomfortable with the scrutiny and turned away, biting his thumbnail as he waited for the Wookiee's next diatribe. Wouldn't be long: the big furball always had something to say when it came to Han's health. Or, really, about Han's life in general. Always an opinion.

 _I spoke with Little Princess this morning,_ he growled.

Han's head whipped to look at his first mate. "Yeah?"

 _Yes,_ Chewie said. _I believe we have come to an agreement._

The flight back from Nar Shaddaa to _Home One_ had been… tense. Leia had been understandably upset and while Han had tried to help, the infection had travelled from the leather of his slagged boot into the bones of his feet, quick sucker that it was. His pain had grown worse and worse until he'd nearly doubled over with it. And while he'd been rendered mute by the fire in his leg, there had been some kind of strange discussion between Leia and Chewie, one in which Leia's burgeoning Shyriiwook had failed to grasp the nuance of tone. To hear her tell it, Chewie had skirted her affections, which she'd interpreted as recrimination for doing her Jedi thing in the marketplace. Leia was quite, ah, _sensitive_ about that Jedi thing.

He supposed anyone would be, really. It wasn't the kind of thing a person just forgot about.

Han had argued with her about it, though. Chewie's feelings for Leia had not changed,of that he was certain. Once a few lifetimes ago, captain and first mate had had a few too many and Chewie had let slip that he'd fought in the Clone Wars defending Kashyyyk, that he'd fought side-by-side with a few Jedi. He'd found them honorable, Han remembered, and honor was second in importance only to clan for a Wookiee. Demonstrating her power might be the only way Chewie could love Leia _more_ than he already had.

So her side of the confrontation made no sense to Han.

When he had asked Chewie about it, the Wookiee's eyes had grown large and he'd rushed from Medbay Hell Number Six without another word.

That had been at an unseemly hour this morning. And if Chewie had rushed from Han and went straight to Leia, he wasn't sure what kind of discussion the Wookiee had been planning to have. Han himself had been on the receiving end of those panicked half-conversation/half-lectures from Chewie and had no desire to ever be present for another.

 _Little Princess was very concerned about my reaction to her Force sensitivity. Did you know that?_

Han reached up, scratched an itch on his nose. "Yeah."

 _Why did you not tell me?_

"I'm not her keeper, pal. Leia can speak for herself."

 _She believed I was afraid of her!_

Han didn't reply to that, suspecting that had been the case. She'd seemed to think Han himself would be afraid of her, too, before he'd set her straight. It was interesting to see the princess in a state of self-questioning. She always seemed so put-together, so sure. And while he hated that she felt that uncertainty in herself, it was also a relief, a sign that she was indeed human. Something about that felt intimate to Han, that she chose to let him—and now Chewie, too—see her fears. Like she trusted them just a little more than she trusted everyone else.

Now if he could only get her to confide in Luke.

 _She thought I had rescinded my debt to you by nature of her power!_ Chewie was angry, livid even, honorbound and defensive. He raised his arms and shook his fists, his growls getting louder as he went on. _I would never, ever break the terms of the Life Debt!_

"Okay, hang on," Han interrupted. "Whaddya mean, _break the terms?"_

Chewie's features froze and then softened, pulled back from the brink by Han's insistent tone. _I owe you my life. I am bound by blood oath to protect you._

"Yeah, I figured that out a while ago," Han said, sarcastic. "But what does it have to do with Leia?"

 _My Life Debt to you extends to her as well._

Han raised an eyebrow. "It does?"

The Wookiee paused and looked like he wasn't sure if Han were joking or not. _She is your mate,_ he grunted _._

Permanence Range. That was interesting to Han, something he had to think about a bit later. "Yeah. So?"

 _A Life Debt is like a Pair-Bonding. My clan is your clan and your clan is my clan. Would you risk your life for Malla? Lumpawaroo?_

Han didn't hesitate. "Of course. That's different though."

 _I would risk my life for Little Princess and any cubs you two might have—_

"Alright," Han stopped him, the conversation going too far down the road for his comfort. "I get it. So you got huffy because you thought she was asking you to break the debt you owe to me because of her?"

 _Little Princess told me that she understood why I would be afraid, that I was under no requirement to remain with the Alliance if I no longer wanted to see her._

Han pressed his lips together, starting to see how the conversation must have gone. "She didn't mean it like that, Chewie. She was trying to give you space if you needed it."

 _I do not need space._

"She seemed to think you did," he said with a shrug.

 _I disavowed her of her ridiculous notions, do not worry, Cub._ Chewie seemed eager. _She will not doubt my sincerity again._

Han wanted to laugh. The image of an outraged Chewie stomping off to yell at Leia first thing in the morning when she thought he was afraid of her was hilarious. She'd mentioned that she thought Chewie might be treating her differently than he had before her little revelation, but it hadn't seemed like a good time to set her straight. And while he didn't like the idea of Chewie butting in where he didn't belong—square in the middle of this brand-new relationship between Han and Leia—the thought of her reaction to the onslaught of his first mate's devotion was really fucking funny as far as he was concerned.

"I'm sure she won't," Han said, trying not to laugh. "Good job setting her straight, pal."

 _Someone had to, since you've decided to take medical leave._

"I _did not—_ I'm a prisoner, Chewie—!"

"Well, look at you!" a bright voice said from the plastex hatch of the enclosure. "Up and fighting again already. And it only took you three days!"

Han turned to look at the new visitor. His sandy-blonde hair was a mess on top of his head, his big, blue eyes sincere and sparkling, the arms of an orange pilot's flight-suit tied around his waist. The white undershirt he wore was too small for him, showed hints of sweat and dirt, and his black boots were scuffed and worn.

But Luke Skywalker grinned like the sweet motherfucker he was, and Han wanted to punch him for it.

"Get me out of here, kid," Han said. "Pull your Rebel Hero strings."

Luke snorted. "No can do. If you'd have taken the bacta treatment—"

"Oh _, fuck_ you," Han responded, but couldn't hide his grin.

He hadn't had much time with Luke since getting back from Nar Shaddaa. The kid had visited him in MedBay Hell Number Six shortly after he'd been admitted but had quickly been summoned to the flight deck. He had left with a regretful twist to his lips and a hurried _be good!_ thrown behind him. Important Rebel Stuff, Han thought. Leia always seemed to be called away from him too soon, too. Par for the fucking course with these people.

Chewie told him later that Luke was part of the alpha team rush-delivering the new heaters to the planet High Command had designated as their best shot for a permanent base. Which made sense, once Leia had debriefed him about the Alliance's plan to use them, but at the time it had confused the hell out of him, What was Luke going to do with a few hundred heaters? Fly them? Wave them around with the Force and throw them at the Imps?

Turned out the heaters had been inventoried and transferred from the _Starlight Intruder_ to sixteen other able spacecraft at what felt like the speed of light. No one wanted to imagine the mess if the Alliance ship hauling the heaters was destroyed en route, so the cargo was split to defray the potential financial loss. If the Imps found one ship, at least the Alliance had fifteen others out there, all on different routes with different timetables and different landing zones. The Rogues seemed like the ideal flight group to handle the mission. The heaters had been successfully delivered, on time and intact, and the Alliance was now not-so-cautiously optimistic about.… gods, what was it called again?

 _Echo Base._ On Hoth, if he remembered the name correctly.

It sounded like a big shitball of ice.

Preparatory personnel shipped out the next day: radar techs and enviro-engineers and the Target Base Crew, the overworked team whose job it was to scout, establish and prepare new bases for the Alliance. And in the three days since the _Millennium Falcon_ and the _Starlight Intruder_ had hit the landing bays of the assembled Rebel fleet, a new functional base was getting established in record time.

The base on a planet so cold it could freeze the nuts off a Blongtong.

Han had already decided that if he got assigned there, he'd just sleep on the _Falcon_ anyway. As long as the walls didn't cave in on them all, he'd deal with a little cold. _I got a princess to keep me warm,_ Han thought with a smugness that surprised even him.

"Rumor has it you're busting this joint today," Luke said, interrupting the pleasant thought. "Glad I got back in time."

Han interlaced his fingers at the back of his head, lounged on his medbunk like a king. He was fully dressed in his bloodstripes, white shirt and vest, scuffed boots sitting prettily on the deck beside him. Ready. _So ready._ The minute anyone said _go,_ he was getting out of here faster than a Twi'lek could drop their clothes.

"Rumors? Nah," he replied. "Soon as the droid-doc gives me the all-clear, I'm out."

"You will be discharged momentarily," a mechanical voice said from the corridor outside Han's partition. "Continually complaining about it will not speed up the process."

Chewie and Luke turned amused looks Han's way but Han only shrugged. "Two-One-Bee doesn't even stop to chat anymore, just yells at me from the corridor."

"I don't blame him," Luke muttered. "So where to first? Wanna grab a bite at the mess?"

Han considered it but shook his head. "Raincheck, eh, kid? I wanna see Leia—"

"God _damn,_ Slick, you're an awful patient," a new voice interrupted him. "Did you seriously deny a bacta dunk?"

In the doorway just behind Luke stood Salla, teeth gleaming in the fluorescent lights, hair tied up in a wild tail at the top of her head, curly black cloud exploding in the air. Dressed in her dark blue flight-suit, she leaned against the opposite side of the partition entrance from Luke. The kid threw the newcomer a startled look but moved aside to give her space to enter.

"Oh, look. It's a party," Han muttered, trying for an annoyed tone he didn't feel in the slightest.

"Slick?" Luke asked from the corner.

"Long story," Han answered him, then turned back to Salla, dropping his lazy pose. "So? Did she agree to help?"

Salla's full lips quirked to one side, her orange eyes playful. "She isn't jumping at the contract yet, but I think I can get her onboard in negotiation. I'm just happy the brass let me pitch it to her myself. It would have been a flat _no_ if they hadn't."

"First sensible thing they've done in awhile," he replied.

Salla had dropped by a couple times during his internment in the medbay. She'd been busy helping with the unloading of the heaters and then with her comprehensive debrief. According to Salla, Madine had kept her in the interrogation cell for a full ten hours, absolutely sure she was an Imperial agent there to discover the location of Echo Base.

When she hadn't come back to visit him, he'd taken drastic measures and called his local High Command member. Leia'd stepped in, vouched for Salla and within the hour, Salla had been offered an independent contracting gig. If there had been any doubt how much sway the princess had in High Command, it'd been soundly squashed.

Leia had also drawn up a contract for Salla to bring to Prisht, an agreement to allow Alliance contractors to dock in The Distributary on Nar Shaddaa if necessary. According to Leia, the contract looked a lot like his had before their most recent mission: vague and with very little monetary compensation included.

 _It's a start,_ Leia had said. _And Salla and I can renegotiate the terms._

"Still, it's good news," he said. "We can use all the help we can get out there."

 _We,_ Chewie growled.

"Yeah, We?" Luke echoed. "And also _who?"_

Han looked from Salla to Luke, both eyeing each other like they were going to square off and draw blasters. Funny, Han honestly didn't know who would take who in that fight.

"Cool your jets, Luke. This is Salla Zend. She's a.… uh.…" he trailed off, unsure how to describe her. "She's an old—"

"—friend," Salla replied, winking. "An old friend. Your last name isn't Skywalker, by any chance?"

Luke looked uncertainly between Salla and Han, appeared to come to a decision and hesitantly smiled. "That's what they tell me."

"I hear you're a pretty good pilot," Salla challenged. "Can give Slick here a run for his money. That true?"

"Any day of the week, and week of the year," Luke's smile broadened. "Nice to meet you, Salla."

Salla extended her hand, Luke took it and they shook, still hesitant but at the very least not looking like dueling outlaws any longer.

"This could have all happened on the _Falcon_ if I could just get the hell out of here sometime _today,_ Two-One-Bee!" Han said, his voice rising at the end in a loud yell directed at his captor.

Rollers on deck plates preceded the droid. He clumsily navigated the obstacles in the room: the seven-foot Wookiee, the two chatting pilots in the corner, the hydration drip and Han's ready boots, and took one last speculative look at the medscanner sitting just above his patient's head.

"We are following orders, Captain Solo. Shouting at us will not bring you closer to discharge."

Han glared. "What orders?"

Two-One-Bee's right photoreceptor blinked out twice and then steadied. Damned underfunded Alliance. "We have been instructed to await your commanding officer."

"Commanding officer?" Luke asked. "You don't have—"

Han shrugged. "How many times do I have to tell you, med-bot? I ain't an officer. I don't have a C.O."

More footsteps in the corridor outside the partition, heavier and lighter, two sets, and Han felt his spirits rise when Leia turned the corner into his small room, followed closely by General Carlist Rieekan.

She looked beautiful, hair tied up in a braided crown around her head. She was wearing her no-nonsense fatigues in black, sleeveless and tight, exposing toned arms. Knee-high boots completed the dangerous, ruthless look, and if Han hadn't already realized he was attracted to Leia's capability, his reaction to her now would have been all the evidence he would have needed.

"Not yet, you don't," Leia replied. "Would you like one?"

He blinked , confused, until he realized she was asking about a commanding officer. The thought brought a feeling of confinement to his chest, pressure, like his lungs had outgrown his ribcage. Or like a uniform that didn't quite fit. Claustrophobia mixed with dread mixed with a healthy dose of appreciation for Leia's timing.

Chewie growled a greeting to the princess as she stepped to Han's bedside. She smiled back and Han was happy to see it, knowing that she must feel relieved by her conversation with Chewie this morning.

"Carlist has kindly agreed to administer the oath," she said.

She turned to look at Han, eyes calm and non-judgmental. He could tell that she understood better now what it meant for him to commit, would not pressure him to do so if he didn't honestly want to. The rules, the stigma, the twin fears of losing his freedom and losing Leia in Jabba's retribution, all of it seemed to have come home to roost for Leia in the few days since he'd promised to make it official. Not only because of their experiences at Nar Shaddaa, but because she'd feared her _own_ ostracisment if the Alliance ever found about her gifts.

"Why wouldn't you just do it, Leia?" Luke asked from the corner.

She seemed to register his presence all at once and a wide smile appeared on her face. "Luke! I'm glad you got here in time. I was afraid my message wouldn't reach you."

"Wouldn't have missed this for the world," Luke responded.

Han blnked. "Wait. You _arranged_ this? Did she call you, too?"

He directed the question at Chewie, who only huffed an unapologetic _of course she did._ Then Han turned to Salla, asking the same question without speaking, outrage and admiration in his glare.

"Felt important to be here, I don't know," Salla said, false nonchalance rampant in her tone.

He turned accusatory eyes on Leia, caught her soft smile.

"A member of High Command has to administer the oath. A commission has already been drawn up for you and has to be presented by a military officer. I am here as witness, as are all of them. I figured you wouldn't want a public ceremony."

She paused, took a long look at Han, sincere warmth in her eyes, in her lips, in the hand that touched his shoulder. Han could feel Luke's eyes on them, could feel the unasked questions. But that wasn't what he focused on. He zeroed in on Leia's honest question, the lack of presumption, the real choice he had here, to commit to the Alliance separate from his commitment to her.

"That is, of course, if you still want to take it," she finished.

Han would remember this moment a long time after his other memories dulled with age. He'd remember the quiet, calm way the group watched him, would remember the hope on their faces. The warmth that bloomed in his chest as he took each of them in, remembered their expressions. Felt the acceptance of being welcomed into the first family he'd ever really known.

 _Acceptance._

Han swallowed, grabbed Leia's hand and turned to look at Rieekan, a tiny smile on the general's lips. "Okay, General. Let's do this."

* * *

Han and Leia went back to the _Falcon._ Alone.

Han knew it had significance, knew that he should temper the excitement that bubbled low in his chest, the expectations that flew across his brain like the _Falcon_ through the Kessel Run. He knew he needed to be careful, needed to tread lightly. This wasn't like a pick-up in a bar. This wasn't like sleeping with another smuggler. This was Leia. A person he loved, a person he respected and with whom he wanted a future. Not something he wanted to fuck up by thinking too much with his cock.

But he found it difficult. Walking hand-in-hand with Leia as a commissioned officer, with orders to report for duty in the morning— _0900,_ Rieekan had warned him, _don't be late, Commander Solo_ —the possibilities seemed endless. Like a star-flug sky. Like the endlessness of deep space. Thrilling and terrifying in equal measure.

He'd spent scant time with Leia since their arrival back with the Alliance. He'd been in pain and she'd been running around putting out fires and coordinating the shipment of the heaters. What time they had had been public and rushed, without the opportunity to really talk.

Now he had hours. _They_ had hours.

"Commander Solo," Leia murmured next to him. " _Commander._ "

Yeah. Commander. He wasn't sure how to feel about that one. It was a far cry from what he'd been in the Imperial Navy, that was for sure. A commander meant … _what?_ A flight of his own. Maybe a couple of squadrons. The ability to coordinate offensive measures, the legal right to make shit up as he went as long as it was in service to their objective and the safety of the people under his command.

It didn't scare him. He knew he was quite capable of performing those tasks. He'd been doing it for nearly two years now. It was just–

"You sure they meant to give me that rank?" he asked, still skeptical, still unsure.

The brass didn't trust him, he knew that for a fact. Part of him wondered if Leia and Carlist had gotten together and just signed him up without anyone else knowing.

 _Can't take him back now,_ Rieekan would say. _He already signed the commission._

Leia blinked up at him as they ascended the boarding ramp, the din of welcoming and curious soldiers deafening in its joyful jauntiness. "Which rank did you expect?"

"Lieutenant," he answered without pause..

 _Lieutenant_ was the last rank he'd had in the Imperial Navy, the last legitimate job— _legitimate, ha!_ —he'd had in the past ten years. Seemed like a fair rank to him.

"You fly your own ship, Han," she answered as they walked through the hatch. " _Lieutenant_ makes no sense. You'd at least be a captain to fly the _Falcon_."

" _Captain_ is just fine with me," he said.

Leia's smile was indulgent but only just. "We want you to command other ships, too."

"Fine. Colonel."

"That's what Dodonna suggested but it's still too low of a rank. He's not your biggest fan."

Han turned to shut the hatch. The air hissed and the din of the docking bay cut off. "Huh."

"Carlist wanted to make you a brigadier general, but—"

He turned wide, panicked eyes to hers. " _Leia_. No."

"—I told him you'd have that exact reaction," she finished, pointing at him with a smile on her lips.

"Carlist is delusional," Han said but the comment was heavy with fondnes. Rieekan was the kind of man Han suspected Leia thought he could be someday, an honorable man with just a bit of a chip on his shoulder about it. And Han himself would be lying if he said that that idea wasn't accompanied by a flutterly, excited feeling. Rieekan still seemed to have a personality, seemed to hold onto his attitude and hadn't yet acted like a plastex cut-out of what a proper officer should look like.

He had every intention of taking his cues from Rieekan.

Han turned to face Leia, watched her lean casually against the hull, one foot crossed over the other like she waltzed onto his ship with him all the time.

Time seemed to lengthen, stretch, like every action, every detail was given more space than physics normally permitted. Leia's eyes were enormous in the low light, the set of her shoulders determined, her lips pressed together in a slow, warming smile.

Han's heartbeat stuttered into a triplet rhythm.

"He is not delusional," she defended after a pause. "He just recognizes talent."

Han barked a disbelieving laugh. "Right. _Talent._ "

"And intelligence."

"Uh-huh _,"_ he said.

Where had his words gone? He felt like he couldn't speak correctly, like she'd stolen the words from him.

"Patent disregard for authority."

Well, he couldn't argue with that one. "Alright," he said and put up his hands. "Stop complimentin' me. It's freaking me out."

Leia laughed, a bright, happy laugh, and Han smiled to hear it.

A heavy silence fell between them, full of expectation though Han wasn't entirely sure what tension Leia felt. He was certain of his own desires. He knew where he wanted this conversation to go. But he was also keenly aware that this was the first day of the rest of his life. He didn't want to overstep Leia's boundaries, whatever they were: he didn't know, they hadn't had time to talk about it. He was flying blind here.

What came out of his mouth was less-than-stellar. He panicked.

"Want something to eat?"

He wanted to slap himself in the forehead. _Want something to eat?_ What kind of lame scramble was his brain spewing tonight? _Get yourself under control, Solo, before you do something really stupid—_

"No."

He stopped, tilted his head, looked at her. "No?"

"No."

"Why not? You never eat anything in the mess and Chewie swore you hadn't eaten. The medcenter is like a klick away from the mess hall, that's ridiculous, who made this ship anyway—?"

Nervous babbling, incomprehensible drivel dropping from his lips like the mess his brain had become. What was he even saying? Han was the _last_ being who knew. Where the hell, _the fuck,_ were the words he needed to say?

"Han."

Low. Throaty. So deep it made him swallow. That tone of voice was enough to bring a person to their knees. What was she doing, wielding a weapon like that before he had had a chance to acclimate to being a goddamned commissioned officer? A responsible adult? When he was standing there, babbling like an idiot while she looked like a goddess, like she was about to eat him alive.

Wasn't fair.

"Leia," he answered, trying to save face. Honestly, it might be the only word he knew anymore.

"Can I ask you a question?" She tilted her head to rest a temple against the hull.

He swallowed again, licked suddenly-dry lips. "Uh. Sure."

She looked dark, sure, comfortable. And it hit him somewhere in the solar plexus, this vision of Leia: so commanding, so capable, that he couldn't take his eyes off her, hung on her every word.

Han zeroed in on her eyes, spectacular grit and intelligence all wrapped up in a look he imagined many Imperial senators had received shortly before they acceded to her demands. Whatever she wanted, she'd get. Plain as day.

He could not imagine saying _no_ to anything she next proposed.

"Why is it that the hatch has been closed for thirty seconds and you haven't kissed me yet?"

Han's brain exploded into wild fantasy, held back only by the careful veneer he'd kind-of perfected around the princess. Her voice was suggestive enough to get him going, there was long history of that already. But there was a difference between innuendo and moving things forward. Into skin and fumbling in a bunk and that hard line between casual fucking and sex in a relationship. And while he suspected neither of them were exactly clueless about the physical aspects of sex, he, for one, didn't quite know how to not screw this up in some fundamental way by being too eager.

He cleared his throat, decided honesty was probably the best policy. "Didn't want you to feel attacked."

She smiled: a soft, shy smile. "Oh? Are you going to attack me?"

His heart fluttered, struck by her courage and her caution, splendidly coalescing into one beautiful facial expression. Not hesitant. Not with trepidation. Just plain, old patience and nerves.

"Wasn't planning on it," he muttered.

She pushed off the hull, took two steps. Three. Four. Found his chest with her fingertips, looked into his eyes. He swallowed again. Gods, she was stunning.

"Commander Solo," she murmured. "I am not afraid of you _attacking me_."

In any other circumstance he would have laughed. No, she wasn't. Not really. Not the way someone else might be. He'd come a long way in seeing her perspective on things, seeing how much commitment meant to her, how much the oath he'd just taken could change her perception of him for the better.

And to know that he wasn't doing it _just for her._ She might have been the catalyst for him realizing what it was he really wanted, and he'd already admitted to himself that he wanted the galaxy she fought for, too. But his galaxy had also radically shifted. Not in the way hers had avalanched into self-loathing, but it _had_ shifted, and it left him feeling newly-born and righteous.

"We can take this slow," he said. He ran a finger down her cheek, cupped her jaw. "Don't want to rush anything."

A long pause.

Then Leia rose on her toes, pressed her lips to his, closed her eyes just before he closed his and gave himself over to the sweetness of her lips, the divine feeling of her fingers pulling his shirt out of the waistband of his pants and then pressing into the skin of his lower back. The kiss was slow, unhurried, more a welcome home than a passionate gesture leading anywhere.

Han liked that, liked the thought of setting their own pace. They'd gone slow for eighteen months, hadn't they? She'd seen him at his worst; he'd seen the same of her. And if asked he would say, immediately, that he trusted Leia more than almost anyone else he knew.

So. They'd set their own pace. Sounded alright to him.

"I don't want to take this slow," she whispered against his lips when she pulled away. "Do you?"

A flash of brown when he opened his eyes, the soft exhale he felt on his lips, the tiny pinpricks of fire on his back where her fingers touched him. He lifted his hands, fingers brushing through her hair, palms at her jaw, watching her eyes as she blinked.

"No," he said. "I don't."

He kissed her, a little deeper, hunching his shoulders to keep her within reach. With a flick of his tongue she opened her mouth and the world melted from him like snow. Ferocious and heated, kissing Leia felt like a game of dejarik he was destined to lose. She was strategic, her tongue flitting to his when she wanted more control. Like every fucking interaction he'd ever had with her, there was fight bubbling beneath the surface. Challenge. Pride and strength.

And he suddenly couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted someone as much as he wanted her now.

His hands swept down her arms, squeezed her fingers and then looped around her hips and lifted until she wrapped her legs around him. In his arms she was nearly as tall as he was, and the smile on her face was electric as he began walking backwards toward his cabin.

"I hate to ask," she said and then kissed him again, smiling into his lips. Han thought it was adorable that she kept doing that. "But you are safe, yes?"

"Yup," he murmured, fumbling for the brighter lights to illuminate the ring corridor. He was worried he'd trip over something Chewie had left out. "Shots are up to date. Got records, if you need 'em."

She laughed softly, wrapped her left arm around his neck. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

That quip earned a stop in the forward momentum to kiss her soundly against the hull, her back pressed to durasteel and the juncture of her hips folding deliciously into his lower abdomen.

"Great idea," he murmured.

Walking again, he reached the hatch to the captain's quarters, slapping the door panel with too much force when Leia's tongue slid against his teeth unexpectedly, filling him with a rush of heat that felled all sense of strength. He buckled down, wrapped both arms around her back, and tripped over to the bunk in a staggering display of how damned much she affected him.

They fell onto the bunk on their sides, another soft laugh against his lips. He found it hilarious and sexy, the way she seemed so happy to be here with him. A month ago he would have said it was out of character, but Nar Shaddaa had changed some very fundamental aspects of his understanding of Leia Organa.

"Very smooth, Han," she murmured as she extricated her legs from around his hips.

He sat up and reached for her boots, big hands spanning the width of her foot. "Patented skill," he agreed. "Tried and trusted."

She hummed, lifted first one leg and then the other to help him remove the boots. When he sat up, she reached for his shirt fasteners, slipping her fingers through the breaks in the fabric.

"You're going to have to get better about carrying me places," she said into his shirt, neck bent to watch the play of her fingers.

"Why's that?" he asked, his heart thrumming. _Was this really happening?_

"Because," she said as she reached the last fastener, triumphantly slipping her right hand through the edges of his shirt to press a palm against the skin of his stomach. "I think I like being tall with you."

She grinned at his dopey smile, the one he knew he was wearing but couldn't seem to shake. This woman and her unpredictable bouts of hilarity. He better lock up this adoration real quick or he'd never be able to fool her again.

"Good thing I have _legs for days,"_ he quoted back to her.

Her eyes shot up like a blaster bolt, like a pittin caught stealing food. "What?"

"Something you said a while ago. On Thrahl. _That man has legs for days._ "

She pursed her lips, dropped her hands, sat back as he started on the fasteners of her shirt. "I did _not …_ where did you hear that?"

He grunted, the tiny fasteners befuddling his slightly-shaking fingers. "Luke."

" _Luke._ "

"Shoulda guessed you liked me back then," he taunted, still struggling with the fasteners. Why the fuck were they so fucking _small?_

Leia batted his hands away, got to work unfastening her shirt herself with all the patience of a wild nexu. "I liked your legs. Not you."

"Same thing."

" _Not_ the same thing," she said, removing her shirt and unceremoniously throwing it to the deck. "You still had that habit of driving me crazy whenever you opened your mouth."

Han wasn't listening. His thoughts had stuttered to a complete halt, vacuum and dark and a blessed nothingness but for the appreciation of the beauty before him. Leia wore standard-issue Alliance underclothing—a dull, dishwater gray brassiere in the low, blue light of his cabin—but the effect was outstanding. Her breasts looked soft, perfect, even in their unremarkable confinement. And if that wasn't Leia Organa in a nutshell, he didn't know what was.

He wanted to touch. He wanted to kiss. He wanted to press his tongue against the skin there. And he wanted to do all of that immediately and first and forever, if he could swing it.

Had Han had been paying attention, he'd have realized that his stillness had gone past _appreciation_ and lifted the needle dangerously close to _awestruck._ Her skin looked ethereal, like a dream or a fantasy, he wasn't sure which, but he couldn't look away and time stretched again: lethargic and lean.

In the back of his mind, he heard Leia's quiet _ahem,_ but his brain had gone somewhere else entirely and it wasn't until slim fingers slipped under his chin and raised his eyes to hers that he snapped back to reality.

"You're easy enough to please," she said.

"Me?" he said, coming to with the force of her self-satisfied smile. "Hell, no, I'm not."

He found purpose in whipping off his shirt, finding activity the only way to stay focused. He was starting to feel the clear, unbridled effect she was having on him, the way every smile, every inch of skin, made him harden, made him get a little closer to comprehending that this was really happening. That she was here of her own volition, teasing him and smiling and laughing like he never knew he wanted.

Figuring there was nothing wrong with a little more movement, he leaned into her, pushing her bodily back against the bedsheets, and then swept lower to press a kiss against her stomach, just above her navel. Her abdominal muscles contracted as she fought a surprised yelp, her hands pressing against the tops of his shoulders as he kissed his way up the narrow line of her torso. He ran his nose between the center seam of her brassiere, pressed a gentle kiss against her left collarbone before resting his weight on hers, hips to hips, noses touching.

"Hi," he said brightly, pressing his palms into the mattress beneath her arms.

"Hi," she answered, cocking an eyebrow at him. "Mind warning me next time you feel like pouncing?"

He shrugged, leaned down and kissed her lips in answer, unwilling to promise any such thing. He had a feeling that Leia would've yelled at him if she had been really hurt or offended, and that was something he hadn't realized he would love about this with her. With others, there was always a split second of question: will they like what he was doing? If they didn't like it, would they tell him? An ocean of uncertainties because he didn't know them, didn't trust them, the way he knew and trusted Leia.

A weight off. _Trust._ Go figure.

His hands swept under her hips, pressed against the waistband of her pants. Felt skin he'd never felt before, skin he'd glimpsed in moments of covertness. When her shirt had ridden up in combat drills, when someone had grabbed her on missions. His fingers had never trailed this low, not even during that night on Nar Shaddaa, and it was like discovering a sunset on a new planet: he'd seen sunsets before, but never _this one,_ and _this one_ was so much more beautiful than the others.

He trailed his lips down the arch of her neck, the line of her throat, hearing a soft exhale against the hair at the top of his head. He took it as encouragement, slid lower to the fullness of her breasts, keeping himself in check. He glanced up, not seeking permission so much as making sure she was watching what he was doing. When he caught expectant brown, he leaned into her skin and pressed lips, tongue, against that infuriating, tantalizing skin.

Leia arched into him and he took it as further incentive, streaming kisses along the dull edge of her brassiere. Soft— _fuck,_ so soft—and smooth, she tasted like he imagined a fine champagne would: a bite on his tongue and then a lingering sweetness, like a perfect marriage of excitement and joy.

But this wasn't his goal. The soft throbbing in his cock was testament to that. He didn't want to rush anything. Gods knew he'd imagined her in every position and every location he even vaguely knew existed. Her specter had haunted him for so long that he couldn't remember the last time he'd imagined anyone else.

And that buildup, that long anticipation, was wreaking havoc on him right now. Because he'd just barely glimpsed forbidden skin and was already edging toward incoherence. That didn't bode well for his chances for the night.

So he moved on, leaving her breasts for the moment and traveling down the length of her stomach to the waistband of the fatigues she wore. He found the smart line of black against pale skin incredibly distracting, the uniform of utility and command against the precious softness he found beneath when he swept his lips along his path. Leia's hands settled against his shoulders, cool against his overheated skin.

The pants were easier to unfasten than the shirt had been, and for that he was grateful. He kept his lips on the skin above her waistband as it disappeared down her legs, as she wiggled to let him pull them off, as he moved to the side to assist her. Half-blind, he fumbled for the pants and the undergarments as they left her ankles, tossing them off the bunk and onto the deck plates, and then leaned away from her body for her big reveal.

 _Stunning_ wasn't the right word. _Breathtaking,_ maybe, but then again, he hadn't had enough breath since she'd kissed him in the corridor a few moments ago. The closest he came to a proper adjective was _stellar,_ because it brought to his mind images of novas and nebulas and the blue-red-white of starlight across the galaxy, the few sights that enthralled him, made him appreciate natural beauty.

That was it, he thought. That was what made sense to him. Leia wasn't human, not really. She was a star, alight and shining in his darkness. Life-giving. Illuminating.

"Love you," he murmured into the skin of her thigh because his words had disappeared into the vacuum.

Soft, small hands pulled on his shoulders, brought him back up to her face, to those brilliant eyes and that patient smile. He settled his hips against hers, felt one leg wrap around his left calf. Her hands framed his face; her fingers snuck into his hair.

"You told me to wait," she whispered. "That you didn't want me to say it just because you did."

He had. He hadn't wanted her to parrot the words back to him if she didn't feel it, though he knew they would never have come this far if she didn't feel _something_ for him. But love …. Well, love was different. He was careful about those words, hadn't said them to just anyone. One person, to be precise: one woman, and that had been a folly of youth and circumstance. What he felt for Leia was not even remotely in the same category.

He'd said he loved her honestly and respected the words enough to want their full reality from her if she ever decided to share them with him. _If,_ not _when._

"Shouldn't have to say something you don't mean," he responded. "That ain't right."

She lifted an eyebrow, amused. "Have I ever said something to you that I didn't mean?"

His eyes slid to the side as he thought about her question. She'd yelled an awful lot of shit at him over the course of their acquaintance and she'd been needlessly harsh sometimes about his unwillingness to formally join the Alliance. But outright lying?

"No," he said.

"Have I _ever_ let someone else's expectations dictate what I say or how I feel?"

He shook his head.

She smiled with the kind of radiance he could only equate with rays on a supergiant. "Good."

With fingers that shook, the only tell of her nervousness, she pulled his head closer to hers, turned him so her lips were pressed against his left ear.

"I love you," she whispered. "I loved you before you told me you loved me. And there is nothing you could have said that would have made me fall in love with you if I hadn't already."

He exhaled and closed his eyes.

"So kindly stop telling me when I can say things," she added.

Han could tell she was smiling, lifted his head to see if for himself. "Got it," he said, and kissed her lightly.

 _She loves me. She loves me. She loves me._

"Because you may be a commander but—" she began but Han cut her off with his lips, using his tongue to shut her up, though every time she said the word _commander_ a thrill ran down his spine.

 _She loves me._

He pressed his hips into hers, ran his hands down the sides of her body until they fit neatly beside her ribcage, until he could support himself on his elbows. She gasped into his lips, tugged her head back into the mattress, the first sharp response she'd given and Han felt a stirring of satisfaction. Was that all it took to get a rise out of her?

"But?" he challenged.

She blinked. Opened her mouth to say something else, some royal proclamation that he wasn't going to follow, but her words were cut short by another roll of his hips, the exquisite feeling of his trouser-covered cock fitting snugly between her legs.

He would have smiled at her little sigh if the motion hadn't hit some serious craving of his own. As it was, he fought for control over the desire to just fuck it all and get himself undressed as quickly as possible.

"You may be a commander," she tried again, but Han had already figured out this game, had found his first victory against her, and he was not going to let this continue on her trajectory. He thrusted against her again, soft but insistent: a preview of what was to come.

And again the words died on her lips. She closed her eyes and sighed.

He reached down, rustled with one hand to unlatch his belt, the heavy nerf-hide holster on his hip, but was foiled by Leia's hand. With the speed of a blaster bolt her hand wedged between the junction of her thighs and the fabric of his pants.

At first he thought the game was up, that she'd slammed the brakes on the evening. He turned startled eyes to hers, worried he'd pushed too far too fast. But Leia's eyes were sparkling, novas in the dark, and she pressed him back with her free hand.

Han sat on his heels, watching Leia rise and arrange herself into a kneeling position. With a fierce smile, she reached for his belt, small fingers tugging on the latch with more force than was purely necessary.

"I always wanted to do this," she stage-whispered and then bit her lip.

 _Oh, well, fuck me._ Like that wasn't the sexiest fucking thing anyone had ever said to him.

Han raised his hands like he was under arrest, palms to the hull above them, so fast that Leia laughed. Nimble, fast fingers unlatched his belt, tugged the closures of his pants open, swept a careful hand inside.

This was one of those throw-away fantasies, like the cheapest ale credits could buy. When Han needed a quick release, he'd imagined Leia's hand against his cock, imagined smooth, strong fingers under the ridge, slipping over the end, pulling him into her palm and pitching him into a quiet, fast frenzy. Handjobs were like that. Run-of-the-mill. Plenty fine, in a pinch. But if given the choice, he would always, always, _always_ choose lips and tongue. Something else.

But that was a fantasy, of course, and Han should have guessed reality with Leia would put the fantasy to shame.

Leia's hand swept under his cock, fingers trailing along his skin, and Han's brain short-circuited into sensation. Delicate and light, she touched him without any real grip: fleeting brushes of fingers. It wasn't like she had room to do much. But the payoff of the tight confines was that the attention she gave was like a shot of adrenaline into his system, the sight of her wrist disappearing into the opening of his pants etched on his brain even when he closed his eyes and groaned.

 _What the hell did you do to deserve this, buddy?_

Deciding that he wanted more, he leapt away from her caresses, stood up and removed his boots and trousers in one swift motion. He then turned to Leia—crouched beautiful on his bunk, naked but for her brassiere—and opened his arms in obnoxious presentation.

She threw her head back and laughed, eyes glittering. "Very good form, Commander."

He grinned, fell back on the bunk next to her, playful. "Got impatient," he murmured in explanation and swept careful fingers along her hip.

Leia's hand returned to his cock, tracing him with light touches. He was fully erect now, the vision of Leia almost completely naked on his bunk had flipped the switch in his brain that sought self-control. Her smile, her ready laugh, the gorgeous way she seemed to relish the sight and feel of him that echoed his own desire for her …. All of it felt sweet to Han. It felt not-innocent and pure at the same time.

Her hand grew bolder, slipping around him with a measured grip. She alternated her approach, light and teasing, fingers brushing against his length and then, and _then_ he'd sit in her palm while she squeezed him, pressed a groan from him, sensitive and so, so willing to be pressed.

" _Very_ good form," she murmured, shifted closer to wrap a leg around his and brush a kiss against his ear.

He groaned again as she tightened her grip, holding a little longer this time, and decided he wanted more control. His right arm crossed over his body, where her hand was busy with his cock, and brushed his index finger against the juncture of her thighs. She sucked in a breath as if he'd shocked her and unwrapped her leg to provide him more access.

Han rolled onto his side as Leia's hand left him and she settled on her back. He leaned over her, pressed first a light kiss against her lips and then went deeper as the rush of arousal took him completely into her thrall. His right hand drifted over her hip and settled between her legs, softly brushing against skin so soft it made him feel penitent. He didn't know how she liked to be touched, didn't know how much was too much pressure, so he started light as she had done with him. Exploratory.

Leia's tongue flicked against his and while he fought to keep his fingers soft as he swept them against electric skin, wet and warm, the kiss was quickly turning into a power play. Her head lifted off the bunk when she fought for control, when her hand slid onto the back of his head and brought him closer to her.

A dichotomy. Hard and soft. The effect was explosive to him.

He added a little more heat to his touches below, pressed his thumb against her clit. Leia's heavy gasp was incentive enough, and he slipped fingers inside her, just two, careful to keep his absolute _need_ for her at bay.

Oh, but she was warm, and soft, and responsive, so much better than fantasy, so much better than he could have ever dreamed, because she gripped his hair like she was going to rip it out of his scalp and she pressed little kisses along his jaw as she reached his ear and whispered,

"Han, please."

His chest squeezed. His breath was gone. The universe narrowed into a pinprick of one star, one sun, one eternal, gorgeous being. _Leia._

 _She loves me._

He rolled onto her, careful to rest his weight on his knees and elbows. She watched him above her, eyes sweeping over his face, her smile gone but a bubbling heat set in the twist to her lips nonetheless. This was the other moment Han would remember for the rest of his life, this one, the way she looked at him with full trust and encouragement. He would know that she'd told him she loved him at some point in the evening. But this was the moment he truly believed it, could see it in the beloved lines of her face, the eyes that were without guile, the lips pursed and kiss-swollen. Her hair in disarray, her chest rising and falling beneath his, the beads of sweat on her forehead. He could feel her heart beating wildly against him.

Han took all of this in, solidified it in his memory, and then carefully pressed inside her.

And promptly lost his mind.

She was … and he felt … and the pinpoint universe expanded just enough to fit them together, like pieces to a puzzle. Warmth swept over him, the slick pressure against him _so_ sweet, _so_ good, that he had to fight the urge to thrust and release some of his tension. He panted, pressed up onto his hands to see her better. She was so small, tiny, that he didn't want to smother her. But his arms shook, his shoulders barely supporting his weight.

And Leia was shaking, too, one hand on her chest, over her heart, the other reaching for him, trying to pull him down to kiss him. She arched her back, molding her torso to his, lining them up point by point until he pressed back down against her, tilting his head down to kiss her with all the slow, overpowering adoration he felt for her in that moment.

"You gotta talk to me," he muttered into her lips. "I'm not gonna know—"

She lifted her head to pull his lips back down to hers, ran her tongue underneath his, sparking a foreboding jolt deep in his gut. "You'll know," she answered him.

He grunted, shifted weight onto his knees and tried a small, shallow thrust just to start, just to _move,_ because sitting still was doing nothing to curb the insane pressure building up inside him. And that was addictive, that motion, the way Leia sucked in a breath and her body squeezed to encourage him. So he moved again, breathless, a little deeper, a little firmer, a little harder, just to see.

Leia hummed, low, deep in her throat, and Han realized with a snap what he was doing. _She's not an innocent in anything else. Why would she be here?_ He shook his head softly, rearranged his thoughts as much as he could and let go of his lingering, unconscious worries about hurting her.

His thrusts were quicker now, deeper, more satisfying than pulling the lever for the hyperdrive. Hypnotic, the way Leia moaned, gasped, kissed him. He planted his knees further apart, pressing her legs wider, adjusted his angle. The sensation deepened, the low, throaty moans becoming sharper. In a flash of insight, he lifted his upper body away from Leia's, and reached his left hand blindly out, grabbing a pillow, and slipping it under her hips. The angle deepened further, her hips elevated, the underside of her knees now pressed over his elbows.

"Han," she whispered. " _Han._ "

Oh, that was gonna do him in. He kissed her deeply, sharply, all teeth and tongue and groans, and she pressed one hand above her head, the other latching onto his back. His hips drove deeper, deeper, faster, faster, the inexplicable spell of this combusting sun beneath him utterly destroying his control.

And as his control stuttered, so did hers. She was actively mirroring his thrusts, keeping their hips connected, like she was afraid he was going to pull out and leave her hanging. As if he'd ever do that, as if he ever _could._ This was—this was— _this was_ —

"Goddess," she said through heavy breaths. "Oh, yes. There. _There._ "

 _There_ had no true meaning to Han, but he doubled down on whatever it was he was doing to make her whimper like that, make her call out _goddess_ like she was reaching some divine realm. The hand on his back latched into skin, nails biting, but he didn't care, _couldn't care,_ because Leia Organa was feeling something that seemed to transcend whatever normal ironclad grip on her control she had. And he'd die in service to that epiphany if he had to, if she'd always look at him the way she was looking at him now.

Abandonment. Fierce thrusting, unbendable bunk rattling beneath them. This was gonna end quicker than he wanted, but then again, he never wanted this to end. Never.

"Fuck," he said, arching his head back, exposing his throat to Leia's teeth and lips. "Fuck, _Leia."_

She sucked in a breath, opened her mouth against his throat and then held still, utterly silent, tense and tight and shaking. The hand on his back slid up to the nape of his neck, fingers rooting in his hair, as she shook harder, as she reached whatever climax it was that had made the princess of Alderaan completely fall apart in his arms.

He tried, _oh_ he tried to hang in there, to let her feel every nanosecond of her rush, but she was panting against his throat and _why_ was that the thing that was going to make him—

Blinding white light enveloped him, the farthest reaches of star-flung skies and ephemeral celestial bodies. His muscles clamped down, the rush of his climax sweeping him into sparkling infinity. He heard sounds but couldn't understand them; felt hands on his skin but couldn't place them.

All he knew is that Leia was there, with him, and that he had never, ever, felt anything like this in his life.

He hung there for an eternal moment, half in the stars and half wrapped up in Leia. When his brain crashed back into his body, he was sprawled on top of her, her legs in his hands, his knees pressed into the bunk. He ran a steading hand down her right thigh and then tumbled to lie next to her, on their backs, harsh breathing in the air around them

 _Leia,_ he thought. _Leia._

Eventually the galaxy came back to him, the laws of physics reoriented themselves and he was the sated and blessed son of a bitch who had just had the best sex of his life, _the first time_ with this woman. And what kind of sick fucking joke was that? That of all the things he'd done, all the people and acts and extravagant variances of debauchery, one simple position on a single surface had made him come apart at the seams like a Vrengian children's toy, unravelled and utterly torn apart.

"Wow," he said.

He remembered that that had been his reaction after their first kiss, in the attic on Nar Shaddaa. But no other words came to mind to describe what had just happened to him.

And then he received all the validation he needed in one word in a low female voice beside him, echoing the awe and surprise he felt.

"Wow," Leia agreed.

He laughed, wiped a hand over his face, utterly spent and witless. What the fuck, _what the fuck,_ this with her and between them. What the fuck had he expected? Awkward fumbling and a one-sided orgasm? Of _course_ not, of course it would be fantastic. Of course it would leave everyone else in the dust.

He laughed harder.

Leia turned onto her side, fitted herself against him, rested her chin on his shoulder. "What?" she asked.

"Ah, sweetheart," he said around the shape of his smile. " _Wow_ doesn't begin to cover it."

He caught her smile, wide and white, beautiful in the flush of her cheeks. He kissed her forehead, wrapped an arm around her, spent a quiet moment revelling in the ease of the silence between them, the way the endorphins left him tired and tingling.

 _She loves me._

"What time do you have to report in the morning?" he asked.

Leia ran a hand through the hair on his chest. "Early. 0600."

"Mind staying here tonight?" he murmured.

He didn't know where the thought had come from. He didn't like sleeping with people on the _Falcon_ when it wasn't in flight. Something about it always felt a little dangerous to him.

But Leia.

She lifted her eyes to his, pressed her hand against the skin above his heart as it settled into a normal rhythm. "I'm glad you asked. I … _prepared_ for this."

Her tone sparked his interest, pulled him out of his looming sleep. "Prepared?"

"Um," she said. "You didn't notice?"

Leia pointed to the makeshift desk on the far side of the cabin, where sat an Alliance-issue backpack. Small, discreet, but very clearly not his.

"Was a little distracted," he confessed. "What's in the bag?"

"Clothes. My datapad. A few things for a fresher."

He blinked at her, smoothed a hand down the soft plane of her back. "You didn't have that when we came here."

She pressed her lips together into a soft smile. "Chewie let me in this morning. Did you know we talked?"

Han's brain sluggishly struggled to keep up. "He said something about that, yeah."

"Well, after that, I asked if I could bring a pack over and if he … um …. minde giving us some privacy. Just for tonight."

He tilted his head, watched her eyes as they slid to the side, as she blushed, as she ducked her head to kiss his chest. Warmth like a tide, waxing and waning. His orgasm had taken everything out of him but her words seemed to flicker in the quiet bobbing of his sated mind.

"You planned this?" he asked.

Leia watched her fingers nestle in the hair on his chest, deliberately not looking at him. After a beat, she turned her face up to his and summoned what was left of her courage.

"I wanted you to know, _really know,_ that what's happening between me and you was not conditional on you signing the commission."

 _She loves me._

He closed his eyes and moved to his side, wrapping her up completely in his arms. She nestled into him, threaded her legs through his, sighed into his shoulder.

 _Ah, Leia,_ he thought, helplessly overcome by her thoughtfulness.

"You needed to know," she murmured.

And Han swallowed, voice thick, and said with every bit of certainty he had, "I know, Princess. I know _._ "

* * *

 _The End_

* * *

 _Author's Note: Thank you so much for going on this ride with me, my friends! Your encouragement has made me a better author. I am immensely proud of what this story has become and it has been my honor to give you new chapters each week._

 _I want to remind you that_ C&P _is not finished; a sequel is planned for later this year. I don't know the title, I don't quite know what I'm doing with it other than to say that we will be moving to Hoth and Dagobah, exploring Leia's (and Luke's) Jedi training. This story is, at heart, about Han and Leia, though, so much like_ C&P, _Han will still be trying his best to keep up with his princess. If you want to get that email when I begin posting_ C&P2, _please put me on your fav author's list and ask for notifications. I'm also still alive on Tumblr—my name is_ KnightedRogue _there as well—so you can always reach me on that platform, too! Send me (nice) asks, pester me, bribe me with artwork, or simply start a PM, whatever floats your boat! I love hearing from you!_

 _Thank you again for your incredible generosity!_

 _With all my love and gratefulness,_

 _KR_


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